A defensive look creeps into her eyes. “Why?”

“Because I might be able to find something that would give us a clue as to where she’s gone. Or why.”

“There’s nothing to find,” she says sharply. “I’ve looked.”

“Yeah, well I want to look, too.” I don’t give her a chance to argue, but turn toward the short hall that leads from the living room, assuming it’s the way to the bedrooms.

She’s right on my heels. I put a hand on the first door and she stops me. “That’s my room,” she snaps.

I don’t tell her how happy I am that I don’t have to see the horror that must be her bedroom. I step instead to the next door. The knob has been removed from the door, leaving only a large, round hole. “What happened here?”

She rolls her shoulders. “Trish leaves her room locked. When she disappeared, I had to get inside. That was the only way I could think of to do it.”

I open the door. There are also two deadbolts that lock from the inside. Trish felt she needed to deadbolt her bedroom? I know teenagers value their privacy, but most don’t resort to deadbolts. I wonder who she was trying to keep out.

I push the door back and move inside. Carolyn doesn’t follow me, a flush creeping into her cheeks. When I look around, I understand why. She should be embarrassed. This room belongs in another house. The bed is made, the furniture clutter and dirt free. Schoolbooks are stacked with neat precision. There is a bulletin board with a few pictures, but only of Trish and whom I must assume are school friends, no family photos. The things in her dresser drawers are folded. The closet yields shoes lined up in a row, clothes clean and pressed and hung up by category: shirts, skirts, pants, coats.

Hardly the room of a teenaged doper. Her wardrobe is meager, and somehow that makes me sadder than anything else I’ve seen so far.

But I don’t find anything that gives me a clue as to where she might have gone. No diary. No notebooks with scrawled notes on the covers.

I close the door respectfully behind me and turn again to Carolyn. “When Trish ran away before, where did she go?”

Carolyn’s shoulders hunch a little. “What does that matter?”

“You’re kidding right?”

She frowns and purses her lips. “Where she went before doesn’t matter. She’s not there now. I checked.”

“Not where, Carolyn? I want an answer.”

She strikes a defensive pose. “She went to my parents, okay? But she’s not there now.”

I feel my jaw muscles clench. “I thought you said last night your parents didn’t want anything to do with you or Trish?” But the truth strikes me as I say it. “It’s not Trish they don’t want anything to do with, is it? It’s you.”

Carolyn glares at me with reproachful eyes. “What do you want me to say? That my mom and step dad are disappointed in me? That my life didn’t turn out the way any of us had hoped? Okay. I’ve said it. Now what are you doing to find Trish?”

“You’re sure she’s not with them?”

Reproach veers to anger. “Yes. I called them. Now they have something else to blame me for. My mother is on her way here right now to make sure I don’t screw anything else up.”

“On her way from where?”

Rancor colors her face and words. “Where she lives with her rich husband,” she replies. “Boston.”

“Did you know that’s where Daniel Frey is from? And the Franco’s as well?”

She flicks at a wisp of hair. “Should I? Boston is a big place. There are lots of people from Boston. It’s a coincidence.”

Maybe.

Maybe not.

That’s the last thing Carolyn says to me before she shuts down. When she reaches for a pack of cigarettes, it’s my signal to leave. I don’t see any point in our getting together again this evening. I tell her on my way out that I’ll make her excuses to my folks. I wonder just how much I’ll tell them about the mother of their only grandchild.

Probably not much.

On the way back to school I mull over the recurring theme-the Franco’s, Daniel Frey, and Carolyn’s parents-all from Boston. Carolyn says it’s a coincidence. She may be right. David found no connection between them. Nevertheless, I’ve never put much stock in coincidences.

It’s a little after twelve when I pull in at the school. Mom is holding a press conference on the steps in front of her office. Chief Williams is beside her. A crowd of students gather to the side, some weeping and some talking in low voices. The TV news cameras swarm in to catch it all.

I drive around back and park in the same lot as this morning. Most of the teachers must have left for the day because there are far fewer cars. When I get to Daniel Frey’s classroom, however, he is there with a half dozen students. He detects my presence immediately. He wraps up his conversation and the students drift out. No one pays the least bit of attention to me, though they make their way around me like a wake around the bow of a ship.

He joins me at the doorway. “I need a ride home. Why don’t you take me.” He doesn’t ask it like a question.

I raise an eyebrow. “And why would I want to take you home?”

An impatient frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Look, we both know you plan to follow me. I let my driver go. Will you take me or not?”

“Fine. I’ll take you home. But I want to stop by the office first.”

Frey has his coat over his arm, and with his free hand, he pulls the door to his classroom closed and locks it. “I need to check messages. Let’s go.”

I pick through his thoughts, looking for some hint of duplicity but find none. I feel him doing the same to me, so I send him this message:You're either being honest with me about your innocence or you are the most accomplished liar I’ve ever met.

He smiles, not warmly, and slips his keys into the pocket of his coat.I could say the same about you-being an accomplished liar, I mean.

I haven’t lied to you. In fact, I’ve told you a lot more than I should have, considering the circumstances.

Or maybe you felt you didn’t have a choice. He twirls a finger at his head.Because of this.

We approach the office just as the press conference is coming to a close. Frey goes to the receptionist to check for messages and I wait for Mom in her office. Williams is at her side when she comes in.

He closes the door behind him. “I got a call from the Medical Examiner’s office,” he says. “Barbara died from strangulation. A belt was used, with a metal buckle that left a clear imprint. And a distinctive one. We found marks on her body where she had been hit with it. There was skin under her fingernails. She fought back. And semen on her clothes. Multiple donors. We have DNA samples that we will run through our databases. If we don’t get a hit, we have more than enough to make a match when we catch them.”

Williams’s tone is detached, professional. I’m used to it, but I can see how it’s affecting my mother. She’s thinking of Trish and her shoulders are rigid with tension. Williams can read the signs and will if I don’t distract him. His sharp eyes are watching her.

Barbara went down fighting.

His eyes shift to me.Yes, she did. But there are other things, too. We need to meet privately.

He’s not letting any of those “other things” into his thoughts. I know what you’re doing. It won’t work. Barbara died from human hands. You want to meet about Avery, not Barbara. I can’t do it now.

Because you want to concentrate on finding Trish.

Yes.

In the instant it takes for this to pass between us, my mother presses her fingertips gently against her eyelids and draws a deep breath. “What can we do, Chief Williams?” she asks.

Without hesitation, he switches mental gears. “I’ll have detectives on campus this afternoon and tomorrow. But if you hear anything, or if a student goes to a counselor or teacher because he feels more comfortable talking to someone familiar, let us know immediately. In cases like this, what we learn in the first forty-eight hours often determines whether or not we catch the killer.”