I sat at my desk, satisfied, and checked my watch. I could finish up my typing and get home in time for a decent shower. I plunged into my notes. Chaos crawled into my lap while I typed and was dopey-faced and limp when I packed her up to leave.

At home, Chaos was content to settle in for a good sleep, exhausted by five hours of exploring and working her wiles on Sarah.

The ringing phone dragged me out of the shower about an hour later. Dripping and towel-wrapped, I sprinted to catch it. My answering machine started reciting into my ear at head-splitting volume as I picked up the receiver.

"I'm here, I'm here!" I yelled into the phone, slapping the OFF button. "Hi."

"Hi. Um… this is Will."

"Hi, Will."

"Hi. So, you're available for dinner this evening?"

"Yup. Are you?"

"Of course I am. We're just closing up here. Should I pick you up? Would you rather meet somewhere?"

"It would be easier to meet. I'm not presentable at the moment." "Where and when?"

We agreed on Dan's Beach House at seven. I'd never been there before. The original house on the bluffs had been a notorious rendezvous for bootleggers in the 1920s. The shale heights afforded a view of the whole Sound—including the coast guard station at Elliot Bay—while the mudflats below created a difficult approach, which still sank or stranded a few careless boats every season.

I grinned at the phone and slithered to my bedroom to dry off and dress. It took me a while to decide what to wear. At the last minute, I decided that I didn't want the evening to get too serious, so I threw on a good jacket over a cotton sweater and fresh jeans with loafers instead of my usual boots or sneakers. I looked good. Even the bruises weren't too bad. But, still paranoid, I put my pistol in my purse before I left. It didn't feel right to wear it on a date, but I didn't want to go without it.

I had no trouble following Will's directions and arrived ten minutes early. I spotted his pickup truck in the parking lot. Will was just getting out. He stood beside his truck and waited for me to catch up to him, the misty remains of the rain clinging to his hair and clothes in a jeweled nimbus. I parked a couple of cars away and walked over to him. He caught my hand and we jogged for the doors.

Once inside, he said, "I hope you like fish."

I didn't get to answer before a hyper efficient host bustled us to a booth away from the windows. It was a little more intimate than I had expected and a bit darker. My defenses started to rise. I slid around so I was facing into the room while Will was forced to turn his back to the other diners.

I murmured, looking at my menu, "So, what do you recommend?"

"Everything. The cook does a spectacular salmon with ginger and lime, and all the shrimp dishes are wonderful. Did you know that people who eat a lot of shrimp have a higher baseline radioactivity level than people who don't eat shrimp?" Will added.

Shrimp? What did I care about radioactive shrimp? Then I realized that Will was babbling about crustaceans because he was nervous. That was kind of sweet. Most people who get nervous around me have something more to hide than first-date anxiety.

I grinned at him. "Maybe I'll go for the salmon, then. I wouldn't want to glow in the dark."

He laughed and ordered drinks and food, then started in on the serious chatting and flirting. We were interrupted by a musical beeping from Will's waistband. He snatched a pager out of a fold of his clothing and looked at it.

I watched him study the number, then put the pager away. "Is it something important? I can wait if you need to make a call."

"Nothing like that. It's just Mikey's code."

"Your son pages you?"

"Son?" Will began to laugh and I quivered. The sound of his laughter was like a warm touch on my spine. "Michael is my little brother. He pages me with this code when he goes out. Lets me know he arrived safely."

"Oh," I muttered.

He shook his head in amusement. "It's OK. Lots of people make that mistake. I am old enough to be his father, technically. The relationship is kind of somewhere in between, though. He was a late baby and I was already out of the house—in Europe, in fact—by the time he was a real human being, so I missed a lot. When our folks died, I got the responsibility for raising him. So now I'm Father Goose. I keep tabs on him all the time, which is a little paranoid, but I guess I'm afraid I'll misplace him or something. We both carry pagers so we're never out of touch. Overprotective, right?"

I shrugged to cover both my surprise and my chagrin. "Can't ask me—I'm an investigator, not a family counselor. So you always know where he is? Or at least where he should be?"

"Pretty much. He always knows where I am, too. We're like two weights on a rubber band—we always bounce back toward each other."

"I wish more people were like you and Michael. It would be a lot easier to find some of them."

"You mean your clients?"

"No. Their kids and spouses. Most missing persons are routine," I explained. "There's often a strong clue in their past behavior or habits that will lead me right to them, once I've figured out the habits in the first place. Most people don't have any idea how to disappear. Most don't even mean to. They leave tracks like elephants in mud. But I have one of the other kind right now. Kid just broke his routine and habits completely and disappeared."

Will blanched. "Oh, God, I'd go crazy if anything happened to Michael, if he just disappeared someday… If somebody took him, I'd—I'd lose it. Do you think someone took this kid?"

I reached over and touched his arm. "No. I think he went for a reason and I'm getting an idea of where he might be. But I've got to admit, I'd really like to know why. That's what's bothering me. When I know why someone's vanished, I can make a good guess of where, but the why often turns out to be the most important question. I wouldn't want to have to approach someone in, say, a crack house, without knowing what I was getting into first."

He nodded. "I can understand that." He played with his glass. "You've got a dangerous job," he added, trying to steer the conversation back to my lane. I accepted the transfer, for the time being.

"It's not so bad. A lot of what I do is hunting down paperwork, filing forms, and waiting around. But it beats milking cows."

He grinned and raised his eyebrows. "Cows?"

I nodded. "Yeah. When I was little, I went to visit my Mom's family in Montana. They lived on a cattle ranch, but they kept a few milk cows for themselves. One morning—about four thirty—my cousin got me up to help him milk the cows. I think it was supposed to be fun. But I am not a cow person—my favorite cow comes on a bun. I was sleepy and the cows were large, smelly, and scary. And milking is nasty—which is the real reason they invented automatic milking machines."

Will chuckled. We chatted on about inconsequential things. Around the time our dinners were served, I was starting to have a strange, queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. The feeling was familiar. I looked around out of the corner of my eye as I bent over my fish.

I saw a face flicker in the edge of my vision like one of those persistence-of-vision tricks you can only see when you look away. I pretended to remove a fine bone from my boneless fish, lowering my head and breathing slowly until I could settle the Grey and look without falling in.

A ghost, staring at me with a long and dour face, stood against the wall beside the prosaic RESTROOMS sign. He was thin and weedy, dressed in a suit long out of fashion.

I stared and whispered, "Albert?"

He beckoned to me with an impatient gesture.

I looked up at Will, who was frowning down at me. "Excuse me. I've just remembered a client I needed to call. I'll only be a minute."