Though unmarried, the couple had two daughters. Sandra was born in 1985, when Bernadette was nineteen and Harlan was twenty-nine. Tawny followed in 1987.

A week after Tawny’s second birthday, Harlan left on a run to Vancouver and never returned. Four months later, Bernadette received a letter stating that he wouldn’t be back. The envelope also contained four hundred dollars.

In 1999 Bernadette’s younger daughter vanished while playing in a park. Tawny McGee was twelve years old. Years passed with no progress in the investigation of her disappearance. In 2004 Tawny was released from captivity in Anique Pomerleau’s dungeon of torture.

What I learned from Ryan: four months after Tawny returned home, the Maniwaki dentist retired and closed his office. Appreciative of his employee’s years of loyal service, he secured Bernadette a position as receptionist and bookkeeper at his brother’s pest-control company, if she was willing to move to Montreal. Dissatisfied with the psychological counseling Tawny was receiving, and hoping for better, Bernadette packed up and headed east.

Within a year Bernadette married Jacob Kezerian, the exterminator’s son. The Kezerians now lived in the Montreal suburb of Dollarddes-Ormeaux.

Bernadette had agreed to talk with us. So at three P.M. we were heading her way.

The city of Montreal sprawls across a small hunk of land in the middle of the St. Lawrence River. The West Island—in French, l’Ouest-de-l’île—is a handle for the burbs on the western end.

The West Island is composed of green spaces, bike paths, cross-country ski trails, golf courses, and eco-farms sandwiched among affluent bedroom communities. The area is lousy with stockbrokers, lawyers, bankers, and business owners.

Historically, Montrealers divided themselves linguistically, with the French staying east and the English staying west. That separation has softened in recent years. Still, the West Island remains strongly anglophone. Ironic. As late as the ’60s, the region was largely farmland populated by les Français.

Thirty minutes after we left Sabine Pomerleau, Ryan turned the Jeep onto a street that could have been a backdrop for Wally and the Beav, Quebecois-style. The front lawns were uniform in size and shape. Each was bisected by a center walk bordered with winter-empty swatches of dirt or with burlap-wrapped shrubs.

The homes were equally homogeneous, each a variation on la belle province’s basic bungalow design—stone or stucco facing, blue or brown wood trim, dormer windows up, small porch below.

“Tawny lives with her mother and stepfather?”

“I thought we’d ease into this. First get the lay of the land.”

“Your guy didn’t ask?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

I cocked a questioning brow.

“The kid might still have problems.”

“Tawny isn’t a kid. She’s twenty-seven.”

“I didn’t want Bernadette going all mother bear.”

“She knows you were instrumental in finding her daughter.”

“She does.”

“How did she react to your call?”

Ryan gave that some thought. “She seemed wary.”

“So you implied we were coming just to talk to her?”

“I didn’t imply. Though she might have inferred.”

Eyes rolling, I followed Ryan between the rows of bundled flora leading to the house. The door and flanking windows were trimmed with strings of multicolored lights. A plastic Santa hung from a fleurde-lis iron knocker. Ryan tapped twice, then stepped back.

The woman who answered was a trim brunette trying hard to look younger than her age. Her eyes were a startling turquoise made possible only with tinted contacts. Her makeup was overdone, the streaks in her hair far too blond to look natural. She wore a red-and-green floral shirt unbuttoned over a red tank top. Skinny jeans. Faux equestrian boots.

I’d never met Tawny’s mother. But I knew from the file that she was now forty-eight. The man behind her looked at least ten years her junior. His hair and eyes were dark, his five o’clock shadow darker. His heavy brows met in an unhappy V above the bridge of his nose.

“I’m Bernadette Higham. At least that’s the name the officer used on the phone.” Bernadette started to offer a hand, stopped. “But of course you know that. It’s Kezerian now. But you know that, too.”

“It’s nice to see you, Mrs. Kezerian.”

“I expected the other detective. The fancy dresser.”

“Luc Claudel.”

“Yes. Where is he?”

“In France.”

“I see.” Bernadette’s half-proffered hand curled back to her chest, as though embarrassed at hanging alone in midair. The nails were acrylic, painted the color of uncooked beef.

“This is my colleague, Dr. Temperance Brennan.” Ryan left it at that.

“A doctor?” She glanced at me.

“Dr. Brennan works at the medico-legal lab.”

The turquoise eyes went wide. The fingers curled tighter. Why such fear? I felt a sense of unease.

“My wife has health issues. You got something to tell us?”

Bernadette turned at the sound of her husband’s voice. “I’m okay, Jake.”

Jake placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. He was muscled and toned beyond what I’d expect of a guy just spraying for bugs. His forearm was inked with an intricate Asian design. I wondered if his gesture was meant as support or warning.

“May we talk inside?” Ryan asked.

“Of course. Please,” Bernadette said.

Jake stepped back, his expression unchanged. As we passed, he lingered to close the door.

Bernadette led us down a wide hall and turned right through an archway into a small living room with a bay window in front and a fireplace at the far end. The decor was not what I’d visualized.

Every wall was white, and off-white plush carpeting covered the floor. The sofa and armchairs were upholstered in ivory cotton trimmed with pale piping. The room’s only color came from throw pillows and paintings. Both featured bright geometric designs.

Bronze sculptures of indeterminate form covered the mantel. A reindeer skin lay in front of the hearth.

The end and coffee tables were made of glass and antique brass. A sole photo sat on one. Its frame was mother-of-pearl edged with silver, the quality much higher than that of the image it housed. The picture was grainy, maybe taken with a cellphone or inexpensive camera, then blown up beyond what the pixels could handle.

The subject was a tall young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, on a boat with a harbor or bay behind her. She was wearing a turtleneck and jacket, a bead necklace with some sort of pendant. The wind was lifting the jacket’s collar and blowing her long dark hair across her face. She didn’t look happy. She didn’t look sad. She was pretty in a disturbingly detached sort of way.

Her face was more fleshy, her breasts fuller, than when I’d last seen her. But I knew I was looking at Tawny McGee.

Ryan and I did our usual and sat on opposite ends of the couch. Bernadette took an armchair, fingers clasped like red-tipped claws in her lap. Jake remained standing, arms folded across his chest.

“May I get you something? Coffee? Tea?” Bernadette’s offer sounded rote, insincere.

“No, thank you,” Ryan and I answered in unison.

A cat appeared in the doorway, gray with black stripes and yellow-green eyes. A notch in one ear. A scar on one shoulder. A scrapper.

Bernadette noticed. “Oh, no, no, Murray. Shoo.”

The cat held.

Bernadette started to push to her feet.

“Please let him stay,” I said.

“Get him out of here,” Jake said.

“I own a cat.” I smiled. “His name is Birdie.”

Bernadette looked at Jake. He shrugged but said nothing.

Murray regarded us a moment, then sat, shot a leg, and began cleaning his toes. Something was off with his upper left canine. I liked this cat.

Bernadette settled back, spine stiff, neck muscles standing out sinewy-hard. She glanced from Ryan to me, back to Ryan. Hopeful we had news. Frightened we had news.