“My son, the kind of stories he does-” A glance my way. “He makes enemies.”

Shoffler raises his eyebrows, looks at me. “That so?”

I get that rush in my chest, the adrenaline burn of alarm. I hadn’t thought of this. The idea that whoever took the boys did so because of me – it’s sickening. I tend to go for edgy pieces. Gangbanging, money laundering, arms trafficking. Stories like that. So maybe…

“My father’s right,” I tell Shoffler. “I didn’t think of it.”

“Well,” Shoffler says. “If you can come up with anybody who might take a grudge that far…”

“But why go after the kids? Why not me?”

“Just get with your files and see if anything jumps out at you. Make a little list for me. Can’t hurt.”

I promise to do that, after which Shoffler looks at each of us in turn. No one seems to have anything else to say.

Jack gives in to a mighty yawn. “Excuse me.” He stands up. “Well, thank you very much.”

“Would you like some iced tea?” my mother asks, also getting to her feet. “Or coffee?”

“Actually,” Shoffler says, “I know it’s late, but we’d like to conduct the search now.”

“The search?” Liz asks. “What search?”

“The search of the residence,” Shoffler says. He shoots a glance at me. “Your husband and I have talked about it. He thinks the kidnapper was here. In this house. That maybe we’ll find something. Anyway, it’s routine.”

“I don’t think he was here,” I correct Shoffler. “He was here.”

“Did you tell them about the dimes?” Liz says. “And that rabbit?”

“What’s this?” Shoffler asks.

When I explain, he nods, pulls out the notebook, makes a notation. “We’ll take those into evidence.”

“I don’t get it,” I tell Shoffler. “There’s no question Kevin was here. He called me from this number,” I say. “I turned over my telephone to you guys. You know that.”

Shoffler nods in a noncommittal way, hitches up his pants. “Right. And we’ve asked Verizon for the records.”

“What?”

“Just to backstop the log on your cell phone. Make sure the call from Kevin wasn’t forwarded, you know, from somewhere else.”

“But-”

Shoffler ignores me. “It’s late and we’d like to get started,” he says. “I’m guessing it will take a couple of hours. So you all – you’re welcome to – go for a drive or something.”

“A drive?” my mother says, in the same incredulous tone she might have used if the detective had said “a swim” or “a manicure.”

“Some folks find it upsetting,” Shoffler explains to her in his patient voice, “strangers going through their house. Their things.” He shrugs. “If you decide to stay, you’ll all have to remain in this room until we’re done with the rest of the house. Then we’ll finish up in here.” He makes a clicking sound, snapping his tongue away from the roof of his mouth. It seems unnaturally loud.

“Well, I don’t want to go for a drive,” my mother says.

“I think we’ll stay put,” I say.

“Good enough,” Shoffler says. “In that case, we could cross something else off the list. Get everybody’s fingerprints.”

“What?” Jack says.

“Strictly routine, Mr. Taggart. We need the prints of the people who have been in the house, so we can exclude them. Eventually, we’ll have to print everyone else who’s been in here – housekeeper, babysitter, handyman – for the same reason.” He looks at his watch.

“Why can’t this be done tomorrow?” Jack asks, his arm around Liz’s shoulder. “My daughter is exhausted.”

Shoffler wags his head. “I know. It’s very late – believe me, I’m aware of that. But I’m sure you understand that if there is any evidence here, anything that might provide a lead, we want to know about it right away. Not only can we act on it sooner, the longer we wait, the more the scene becomes contaminated. Plus, the team’s already here, outside, ready to go-”

“They’re outside right now?” I hear myself say. I don’t know why this bothers me, but it does.

Shoffler looks at his watch. “You mind if we get started?”

We sit there for an awkward moment, not knowing what to say, until Jack grabs the remote and turns on the television.

It’s impossible. What could be appropriate? He scowls as he blips from one hopeless choice to another. Baseball, crime shows, sitcoms, a Frontline program about the teen fashion industry.

“Dad,” Liz says.

Jack turns the television off. But when it goes dark with its electronic fizzle, we can hear them in the living room, conducting their search. It sounds like they’re taking the place apart. The counterpoint of conversation, the sounds of doors and drawers being opened, the audible evidence of the search – all this disturbs me. Even though I pushed for the search, it still feels like an invasion of privacy.

And suddenly the word invasion, which with its military connotations always seemed too forceful for this usage, seems perfect. Listening to these strangers pawing through my family’s belongings makes me feel as if I’m under attack, my territory violated. I hate the sound of their footsteps, the murmur of voices, the occasional spurt of laughter. It bothers me so much that I lift the remote from the end table, press the power button.

A mistake. I’ve caught the top of the ten o’clock news. There’s a collective intake of breath as the photo of the boys flashes on the screen, the announcer saying: “No news in the case of the missing Callahan twins…”

“Oh, God,” Liz says, as I punch the television off.

It’s almost a relief when a jittery redhead with bad skin and green fingernails arrives to take our fingerprints.

We all endure this woman’s bad temper as, one at a time, she calls us to the seat next to her. Using the coffee table as a platform, she presses our fingertips into an ink pad and then rolls out each one onto a prepared card. As she rolls my left pinky and then lifts it straight up from the file card, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something sordid about the process. The card contains nothing but the minimal information required to identify me, that and the oblong blobs left by my fingertips, each with its own intricate pattern of whorls and lines.

I am given moistened towelettes to remove the ink from my hands while my mother takes my place. Maybe it’s because the Xanax has worn off, maybe it’s the half a dozen cups of coffee she’s downed since her arrival. Whatever the reason, she can’t seem to allow the technician to manipulate her fingers. She keeps twitching, moving the fingers herself. She apologizes and the tech issues an exaggerated sigh as she rips each messed-up card in two and tosses it into the wastebasket.

“Relax,” she tells my mother for what must be the tenth time, “let me move your finger. You’re rolling it – see, you’re smearing it.” Her tone of voice varies between accusing and patronizing. “Let me manipulate your fingers. Don’t roll…”

“I’m not rolling,” my mother says. “I’m trying not to.”

“You are.”

“Stop bullying her,” I say. “This is voluntary, correct?” My mother casts me a grateful look, but she’s beginning to sniffle.

“Let’s try again,” the fingerprint bitch says, filling out another card with yet another exasperated sigh.

This time, it goes well for a minute or two, but then, Mom twitches or something.

“You’re doing it again!”

My mother breaks down, begins to cry.

“Leave her alone,” my father says, getting to his feet.

“Excuse me,” the tech says, extricating herself from her seat and marching toward the door. “I don’t get paid enough to put up with this grief.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say in an automatic tone.

“Do you want some water, Glenna?” my father asks in an anxious voice. “Alex – do you think we could get some water in here?”

“Sure.” I drag myself up from the couch and speak to the policeman posted in the hall. I realize – and the thought fills me with guilt – that I am tired of my parents, that I wish they would go home. Jack, too. I know they’ve come because they had to come and lend whatever support they can. I guess I’d be hurt if they hadn’t come. But it feels as if Liz and I have to take care of them.