She sipped a little from her cup, stared at the foam. Then: ‘I got surrounded by this one bunch of people and my mother by another. She was screaming for me and I was screaming for her but we were going in different directions. There was no way to stop.’ Her voice went low. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that. It was like I was totally … I don’t know, not even me. I was part of this thing. Nobody was listening to anybody else. We were just out of control.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She was going toward the fire doors. I could see her fight, trying to get back to me. I was going the opposite way – toward the kitchen, the group I was in. There wasn’t an exit sign there but somebody said there was a door we could get out of.’

‘And you escaped that way?’

‘Eventually. But not at first. That’s why it was so bad.’ She teared, then wiped her eyes.

‘What, Trish?’

‘Somebody on the PA system said, “The fire’s in the kitchen.” Or something like that.’

Dance remembered Cohen had made the announcement.

‘But somebody nearby saw that the kitchen was okay. No fire at all. We went in that direction. We tried to tell everybody else but nobody could hear us. You couldn’t hear anything.’

Dance jotted down the girl’s recollections. ‘What’s most important for us to find out is anything about him, this man. We have some description but it’s not very much. We don’t think he was in the club. He was outside. When did you and your mother get there?’

‘I don’t know, maybe seven fifteen.’

‘I want you to think back. Now this guy—’

‘The perp.’

Dance gave her a grin. ‘We say “unsub”. Unknown subject.’

‘I say asshole.’

‘Now, this asshole drove a truck from the warehouse to the club around eight. He had to’ve been there before. Did you see anybody hanging around, maybe near the warehouse? Checking out the club? Near the oil drum where he set the fire?’

Trish seemed to find more comfort in cupping the beverage between her fingers, her nails tipped with chipped black polish, than from drinking it.

A sigh. ‘No. I can’t remember anyone. You know, you go to a place, there’s going to be a show, and you’re just talking and thinking about what you’re going to see and have for dinner, and you don’t pay much attention.’

Much of Kathryn Dance’s job had nothing to do with spotting deception on the part of unsubs: it was about helping witnesses unearth useful recollections.

Teenagers were among the worst when it came to remembering details. Their minds danced around so much, they were so distracted, that they observed little and recalled less – unless the topic interested them. Still, the images were often there. One task of an interviewer is to guide witnesses back to the time and place when they might have noted a tiny kernel that was nonetheless vital in nailing the suspect. As she considered how she might do this, she noted the girl’s keyless fob sitting on the table beside her purse.

A Toyota logo from a local dealer.

‘Prius?’ Dance asked.

She nodded. ‘My mom got it for me. How’d you know?’

‘Guess.’

A sensible car. And an expensive one. Dance remembered, too, that the girl’s father had driven a new Lexus.

‘You like to drive?’

‘Love it! When I’m upset I just drive up and down One. Big Sur and back.’

‘Trish, I want you to think back to the parking lot that night.’

‘I didn’t see anybody in particular.’

‘I understand. But what I’m wondering about is cars. We know this guy’s pretty smart. There’s no indication he’s working with anyone so he’d have to drive to Solitude Creek but he wouldn’t have parked too close to the club. He’d’ve been worried about video cameras or getting spotted climbing out of the truck, after he parked it, and getting into his own car.’

Trish frowned. ‘A silver Honda.’

‘What?’

‘Or light-colored. We were pulling off the highway, off One, on the road that led to the club, and Mom said, “Wonder if it’ll get stolen.” It was parked by itself, on the other side of that line of trees that surrounded the parking lot. Of the club, you know.’

Dance recalled an area of weeds and dunes between the parking lot and Highway One.

‘We’d just seen a news story about the gangs around here? They drive around in flatbeds and, you know, scoop up cars parked in deserted areas. That’s what Mom was talking about.’

‘You know the model?’

‘No, not really. Just the style, you know. Accord or Civic. A lot of kids at school have them. Mom and I talked about calling the police to report it, so it wouldn’t get stolen. But we didn’t. I mean, if we’d done that, maybe …’ She ran out of steam and cried quietly for a moment. Dance reached over and gripped her arm. Trish gave no response. She calmed eventually and took a sip from her cup. ‘You think that’s his car?’ she asked.

Dance replied, ‘Possibly. It’s the sort of place somebody would park, out of the way. Did you notice the plate, what state it came from, the number?’

‘No, just the color, silver. Or light-colored. Maybe gray.’

‘And nobody nearby?’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘That’s a big help, Trish.’

Dance hoped.

She sent a text to TJ to get a list of light-colored Honda owners in the area. She knew this was a weak lead. All law enforcers know that Honda Civics and Accords are close to the most plentiful sedans in America – and therefore the most difficult to trace. She wondered if their unsub had bought or stolen the car for that very reason.

She also asked TJ to hit the list of witnesses from Solitude Creek once more. And see if anyone had spotted the car and had any more information that could be helpful. He should put it out on the law-enforcement wire.

A moment later: On the case, boss.

Trish glanced at her iPhone. ‘It’s late. I should go.’ No teenager had a watch now. ‘Dad’ll be bringing his stuff back to the house soon. I should be there.’ She finished her coffee quickly and pitched the cup into a rubbish bin.

Maybe destroying evidence of a furtive meeting.

‘Thanks.’ Trish inhaled and then, her voice breaking, said, ‘Not okay.’

Dance lifted an eyebrow.

‘You asked me how I was. And I said, “Okay.” But I’m not okay.’ She shivered and cried harder. Dance pulled a wad of napkins from the holder and handed them over.

Trish said, ‘Not very fucking okay at all. Mom was, like, she wasn’t the best mom in the world – she was more of a friend to me than a mom. Which drove me fucking crazy sometimes. Like she wanted to be my older sister or something. But despite all that crap, I miss her so much.’

‘Your nose,’ Dance said. The girl wiped.

‘And Dad’s so different.’

‘They had joint custody?’

‘Mom had me most of the time. That’s what she wanted and Dad didn’t fight it. It was like he just wanted out.’

Fell for his secretary. Dance recalled her earlier scenario of the break-up.

‘It’s just going to be so weird, living in the house again, with him. They got divorced six years ago. Everybody tells me it goes away, all this stuff, what I’m feeling. Just time, it’ll be all right.’

‘Everybody’s wrong,’ Dance said.

‘What?’

‘I lost my husband a few years ago.’

‘Hey, I’m sorry.’

A nod of acknowledgment. ‘It doesn’t go away. Ever. And it shouldn’t. We should always miss certain people who’ve been in our lives. But there’ll be islands, more and more of them.’

‘Islands?’

‘That’s the way I thought of it. Islands – of times when you’re content, you don’t think about the loss. Now it’s like your world’s under water. All of it. But the water goes down and the islands come up. The water’ll be there always but you’ll find dry land again. That helped me get through it.’

‘I should go. He’ll be back soon.’

She rose and turned away. Dance did too. Then in an instant the girl turned and threw her arms around the agent, crying again. ‘Islands,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you … Islands.’