“No,” Benjamin said. “No, after he came back from Minnesota, he settled in here. Our relationship wasn’t close, but it was cordial. If you’ve called hoping to find out about some fight or a watershed event that caused Aidan to run away, there simply wasn’t one.”

My sketch had turned into a winding highway. After Pete Benjamin and I hung up, I added a gesture of a walking figure in the distance, at the roadside, but beyond that I didn’t know what to add. A city skyline ahead? An ocean and sunset? A prison?

From the official data banks I had access to, I’d learned that Aidan Hennessy had never been arrested, not even on a curfew violation or another of the “youth status offenses” that carry no penalty but would have identified him as a runaway and dumped him into the juvenile-services system.

That meant one of a couple of things. One, Aidan Hennessy was the rare runaway who was working and keeping himself alive without breaking the law at all. Two, he was keeping himself fed through the usual street crimes that runaways fall into, but was smart and lucky and hadn’t yet been arrested. Three, he was living off a woman.

Four, he was dead. For Marlinchen’s sake, that was a prospect I didn’t want to consider.

Before I left that day, I went to see Prewitt. It had taken a while, but I’d finally realized what it meant when Van Noord had told me I should keep my cell or pager on, so people knew where I was.

He was in conversation with a Fish and Wildlife officer when I came around, but he’d seen me standing outside his doorway.

“Come in, Detective Pribek,” Prewitt said, as the Fish and Wildlife man exited. “I didn’t expect to see you today. What’s on your mind.”

“I wanted to apologize for the other day, when I had my phone off the hook,” I said, moving to stand just inside the doorway. “I had an ear infection; you know that, right?”

“Of course,” he said. “You’re better today, I hope.”

“Yes, I am,” I said. Then, uncomfortably, I went on. “Lieutenant, when you sent Detective Van Noord by my house, was that about Gray Diaz?”

I was hoping he would be puzzled, and say, No, of course not.

“Yes,” he said.

So much for hopes.

“I didn’t check your personnel records, but you’re known for never taking sick leave,” Prewitt said. “Then Gray Diaz comes in to talk to you about your involvement in the death of Royce Stewart, and you come out looking ashen, tell Van Noord you’re sick, and leave. The next day you can’t be reached.” He let the words sink in. “It didn’t look very good; you can see that, can’t you?”

“You really thought I’d left town?” I said.

“I simply wanted your whereabouts confirmed,” he said mildly. “Bear in mind, Pribek, you have not been charged with anything, and until you are charged or indicted, your status here will remain unaffected. Nobody’s suggested any kind of leave for you.”

“I know that,” I said.

“What I’m suggesting is that if nobody around here is talking about Gray Diaz’s investigation, maybe you shouldn’t be the first to bring it up,” he said.

“I haven’t,” I said.

“On the contrary, you just walked into my office and mentioned it. I didn’t come to you,” he said. “About my decision to send Van Noord to your house: I was mildly troubled by a state of affairs, I acted on it, I satisfied my curiosity. That was the end of it, as far as I was concerned.”

“I didn’t mean to question your judgment, but I need to say one thing. I am not going to sneak out of town in the middle of the night,” I said. “No, what I’m really trying to say is something else.” I swallowed. “I did not kill Royce Stewart.”

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that,” Prewitt said blandly. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” I said. I had a little tremor in my chest from how bluntly I’d just spoken.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

At the door, I paused and turned back. “There is one other thing,” I said. “That unlicensed physician you asked me to look into? I’ve checked with my informants, and I haven’t been able to track it to a source.” My voice was very casual. “I really don’t think there’s anything to it.”

Last year, after his accident in Blue Earth, my husband had been missing for seven days. I’d exhausted my professional knowledge of missing-persons work in looking for him. I’d traveled and spoken to his family. Furthermore, as his wife, I’d had full access to Shiloh ’s accounts, his papers, his home. None of it had made any difference. It was as if he’d simply been erased.

With Aidan Hennessy, I was in the opposite situation. He should have been easy as hell to find. Aidan was an underage runaway, not a fugitive. The longer he spent on the road, the more likely it should have been that he’d be arrested for vagrancy or petty theft. He simply shouldn’t have been this hard to find.

Yet I’d spent three days working the various law-enforcement databases I had access to, and none of it was helping. Deputy Fredericks had e-mailed me Aidan’s last school-yearbook photo, but that didn’t count as an advance. Unless Aidan Hennessy fell into a drainage canal someplace near where I just happened to be, I didn’t think I was going to find him.

It was that frustration that drove me backward, on my next day off, to the elementary school where all the Hennessy children had received their early education, and which Donal still attended.

Marlinchen had mentioned her fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Hansen, in a brief phone conversation we’d had earlier that morning. Hansen had taught both Marlinchen and Aidan, although not in the same year, because Aidan had been held back to repeat the fourth grade. By my calculations, that made her the last teacher in Minnesota to be familiar with Aidan Hennessy, and the one most likely to remember him.

The school didn’t look impressive, given the relative wealth of the neighborhood it was in. It was an assortment of one-story redbrick buildings. Children swarmed around the play structures in the yard; it was their lunch recess.

On her lunch break, Mrs. Hansen was grading papers in her classroom. I stepped inside and immediately felt like a giantess as I walked up through the low desks toward the larger one where Mrs. Hansen sat. She was full-breasted for a woman otherwise slightly built- I gauged her at about five-one- and wore glasses on a gold chain over her off-white shell sweater. Her blond hair was shoulder-length, cut in a flattering way close around the face. Only by looking closely could you see she was nearing 50.

“Can I help you?” Hansen said.

“I hope so,” I said. “My name is Sarah Pribek. I’m a detective, and I wanted to talk to you about a runaway I’m looking for.” I laid Marlinchen’s old photo of Aidan on her desk.

Hansen took the photo and raised her eyebrows, then furrowed them in a slightly exaggerated show of scrutiny. “Oh, my goodness, yes,” she said. “Aidan Hennessy. His little brother Donal might have been one of my students last year, but he went to Ms. Campbell instead.” She frowned. “Aidan had a sister, too. I taught her the year before. They were…” Then she broke off.

“They were supposed to advance to your class together,” I finished for her. “They’re twins, but he was held back a year. You’re not revealing anything the family didn’t share with me.”

She nodded affirmation. “That’s correct. What was the girl’s name, again? Something unusual.”

“Marlinchen,” I said.

“He and his sister would be in high school now, correct?”

“She is,” I said. “He’s been a runaway for six months.”

“Oh, my,” Hansen said. “That’s too bad.” She exaggerated her facial expressions, like adults who deal with the young often do, but the feeling underneath seemed genuine.