“You are, Cope.”

“Yes, true, but I have a brain too.”

“That’s the part of you I need,” she said.

“Why, what’s up?”

“I’m having one of my crazier hunches, and I need you to tell me if I’m on to something or going off the deep end.”

“Is it more important than who sits at the same table as Aunt Carol and Uncle Jerry?”

“No, this is just a homicide.”

“I’ll make the sacrifice. On my way.”

THE sound of the phone woke Jill up.

She was in Yasmin’s bedroom. Yasmin was trying too hard to fit in with the other girls by pretending to be extra boy-crazy. There was a poster of Zac Efron, the hottie from the High School Musicalmovies on one wall, and another of the Sprouse twins from The Suite Life. There was one of Miley Cyrus from Hannah Montana-okay, a girl, not a hottie, but still. It all seemed so desperate.

Yasmin’s bed was near the door while Jill slept by the window. Both beds were blanketed with stuffed animals. Yasmin once told Jill that the best part about divorce was the competitive spoiling-both parents go out of their way with the gifts. Yasmin only saw her mom maybe four, five times a year, but she sent stuff constantly. There were at least two dozen Build-A-Bears, including one dressed like a cheerleader and another, perched next to Jill’s pillow, that was done up like a pop star with rhinestone shorts, a halter top, and a wire microphone wrapped around her furry face. A ton of Webkinz animals, including three hippos alone, spilled onto the floor. Back issues of J-14and Teen Peopleand Popstar!magazines littered the nightstand. The carpet was deep shag, something her parents told her had gone out in the 1970s but seemed to be making an odd comeback in teen bedrooms. There was a brand-new iMac on the desk.

Yasmin was good with computers. So was Jill.

Jill sat up. Yasmin blinked and looked over at her. In the distance, Jill could hear a rumbling voice on the phone. Mr. Novak. There was a Homer Simpson clock on the nightstand between them. It read seven fifteen A.M.

Early for a call, Jill knew, especially on a weekend.

The girls had stayed up late last night. First they went out for dinner and ice cream with Mr. Novak and his annoying new girlfriend, Beth. Beth was probably forty years old and laughed at everything Mr. Novak said like, well, like the annoying boy-crazy girls at their school did to make a boy like them. Jill thought you outgrew that at some stage. Maybe not.

Yasmin had a plasma TV in her room. Her father let them watch as many movies as they wanted. “It’s the weekend,” Guy Novak said with a big smile. “Have at it.” So they microwaved some popcorn and watched PG-13 and even one R-rated film that would probably have freaked out Jill’s parents.

Jill got out of bed. She had to pee, but right now she wondered about last night, what had happened, if her father had tracked Adam down. She was worried. She had called Adam’s phone herself. If he was keeping away from Mom and Dad, okay, that made sense. But she had never considered the possibility that he wouldn’t respond to calls and texts from his little sister. Adam always responded to her.

But not this time.

And that made Jill worry even more.

She checked her cell phone.

“What are you doing?” Yasmin asked.

“Checking to see if Adam called me back.”

“Did he?”

“No. Nothing.”

Yasmin fell silent.

There was a light rap on the door and then it opened. Mr. Novak popped his head in and whispered, “Hey, why are you guys awake?”

“The phone woke us,” Yasmin said.

“Who was it?” Jill asked.

Mr. Novak looked at her. “That was your mommy.”

Jill’s body stiffened. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart,” Mr. Novak said, and Jill could see it was a great big lie. “She just asked if we could keep you today. I figured we’d go to the mall later or maybe a movie. How does that sound?”

“Why does she want me to stay?” Jill asked.

“I don’t know, honey. She just said something’s come up and asked the favor. But she said to tell you that she loves you and everything is fine.”

Jill said nothing. He was lying. She knew it. Yasmin knew it. She looked over at Yasmin. It wouldn’t do to press the issue. He wouldn’t tell them. He was protecting them because their eleven-year-old minds couldn’t handle the truth or whatever nonsense adults use to excuse lying.

“I’m going to run out for a while,” Mr. Novak said.

“Where?” Yasmin asked.

“The office. I need to pick up some stuff. But Beth just stopped by. She’s downstairs watching TV, if you need anything.”

Yasmin smirked. “Just stopped by?”

“Yes.”

“Like she didn’t sleep here? Right, Dad. How old do you think we are?”

He frowned. “That’s enough, young lady.”

“Whatever.”

He closed the door. Jill sat on the bed. Yasmin moved closer to her.

“What do you think happened?” Yasmin asked.

Jill didn’t reply, but she didn’t like where her thoughts were taking her.

COPE came into Muse’s office. He was, Muse thought, looking rather natty in his new blue suit.

“Press conference today?” Muse asked.

“How did you guess?”

“Your suit is natty.”

“Do people still say natty?”

“They should.”

“Agreed. I am the picture of nattiness. I am nattatious. The Natt Man. The Nattster.”

Loren Muse held up a sheet of paper. “Look what just came in to my office.”

“Tell me.”

“Frank Tremont’s letter of resignation. He is putting in for retirement.”

“Quite a loss.”

“Yes.”

Muse looked at him.

“What?”

“Your stunt yesterday with that reporter.”

“What about it?”

“It was a tad patronizing,” Muse said. “I don’t need you rescuing me.”

“I wasn’t rescuing you. If anything, I was setting you up.”

“How’s that?”

“You either had the goods to blow Tremont out of the water or you didn’t. One of you was going to look like an ass.”

“Him or me, was that it?”

“Exactly. Truth is, Tremont is a snitch and a terrible distraction in this office. I wanted him gone for selfish reasons.”

“Suppose I didn’t have the goods.”

Cope shrugged. “Then you might be the one handing in your resignation.”

“You were willing to take that risk?”

“What risk? Tremont is a lazy moron. If he could outthink you, you don’t deserve to be the chief.”

“Touché.”

“Enough. You didn’t call me to talk about Frank Tremont. So what’s up?”

She told him all about the disappearance of Reba Cordova-the witness at Target, the van, the parking lot at the Ramada in East Hanover. Cope sat in the chair and looked at her with gray eyes. He had great eyes, the kind that change color in different light. Loren Muse had something of a crush on Paul Copeland, but then again, she’d also had something of a crush on his predecessor, who was considerably older and couldn’t have looked more different. Maybe she had a thing for authority figures.

The crush was harmless, more an appreciation than any kind of real-life longing. He didn’t keep her up at night or make her hurt or intrude on any of her fantasies, sexual or otherwise. She loved Paul Copeland’s attractiveness without coveting it. She wanted those qualities in whatever man she dated, though Lord knows she had never found it.

Muse knew about her boss’s past, about the horror he’d gone through, the hell of recent revelations. She had even helped see him through it. Like so many other men she knew, Paul Copeland was damaged, but damaged worked for him. Lots of guys in politics-and that’s what this job was, a political appointment-are ambitious but haven’t known suffering. Cope had. As a prosecutor it made him both more sympathetic and less likely to accept defense excuses.

Muse gave him all the facts on the Reba Cordova disappearance without her theories. He watched her face and nodded slowly.