Susanna peered into Barbara’s palm. The button was white with what appeared to be a tiny blue boat painted on it. Susanna’s heart leapt in her chest.

“It’s Ian’s,” she whispered.

“Thank God.” Robert’s eyes brimmed. “He was there. Someone brought him there.”

Emme leaned in to see. “It’s a button, all right, and I agree it’s most likely from clothing that a little boy might wear, but why are you so sure it’s Ian’s?”

“That’s a hand-painted button,” Susanna told her. “One of a kind. Well, one of the eight that were on a little blue sweater that Beth dressed him in quite often.”

“Still, let’s not get too excited. There must be other sweaters just like Ian’s.”

“Uh-uh.” Susanna shook her head. “Trula knitted that sweater, and I painted the little ships on the buttons myself. It was a shower gift. No other like it. This”-she pointed to the button-“was Ian’s.”

“Let’s call the police back,” Robert said, suddenly looking less weary. “If someone brought Ian here, there was a reason. My guess? Someone found him, and took him, maybe stayed here with him until they decided what to do with him. Which means that chances are, he’s alive.” He turned to Susanna and hugged her. “My son is alive, Suse. My son is alive.”

Susanna bit her tongue. Not knowing who had the baby, or why they’d taken him, there was in her mind no cause for celebration, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words. Someone else could do that. Emme, or the police, or the FBI. But not her. It had been too long since she’d seen that light of hope in Robert’s eyes, and she wasn’t about to be the one to put it out.

“Barbara, will you take us to the cabin?” Robert grasped the woman by the arm.

Before she could respond, Susanna said, “Let’s call the police first, Rob. There could very well be evidence there that could lead us to Ian. Let’s not compromise anything, all right?”

He nodded and released his grip on Barbara. “Yes, you’re right. We’ll get the police there first.”

“I think we should have the FBI called in,” Emme told them. “It’s pretty clear that Ian has been kidnapped, and that’s the FBI’s deal. Let’s see if the locals agree.”

The locals did agree, but weren’t inclined to wait around for the Bureau to make an appearance, opting instead to contain the cabin and the path and a perimeter of approximately half a mile in every direction. The state police were called in with their crew of investigators to scour the cabin, inside and out, for every trace of evidence to be found. All of the evidence that had been removed was bagged and marked, some of it already on its way to the FBI lab at the request of the agent who was to arrive late Saturday afternoon.

“If we had our own lab,” Robert said to Suse over breakfast on Saturday, “we wouldn’t have to wait for anyone. We could analyze the evidence ourselves.”

He was edgy, his mood subdued since the police had found several spots of blood on the cabin floor. They’d taken samples from Robert to determine if there was a match to the droplets.

“Robert, chances are that neither the police nor the FBI would be willing to turn over evidence for you to have tested,” Susanna said.

“I could make my lab available to them for free. Save them from hiring out. Save them a lot of money.” He fell silent. “Let’s do that. Let’s look for someone who can set it up and figure out what we need and hire some good techs.”

“Robert, you know that there’s a good chance the blood isn’t Ian’s. It could be from an animal, or if we’re really lucky, it could turn out to be from the person who has Ian.”

“Or it could be Ian’s,” he said. “He could have been hurt.”

“It could be something very minor, like a pinprick.” She fought the urge to reach across the table and smooth back the hair from his forehead. Yesterday he’d been so elated, and now that look of despair was settling in around his eyes again. She did reach out to him, touching his hand instead of his face. “Let’s not borrow trouble, as Trula always says. Let’s wait and see.”

“I’ve been waiting a long time, Suse.” He raised his head to look at her, and corrected himself. “We’ve been waiting a long time. You’ve been with me through every moment of this nightmare.”

“It’s what friends do,” she heard herself say.

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” he said. “Have I ever told you that?”

“Actually, yes, you have.” She forced a smile. “Several times.”

“It’s true. You’ve always been there for me, Suse.”

“And I always will be.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “No matter what, I’ll always be here for you…”

NINE

You’re acting a little antsy today,” Trula observed from her place at the counter where she was trying unsuccessfully to open a jar of cherries she’d canned earlier in the season. “What is it about this Fiona person that’s making you so nervous, Sam?”

“Nervous?” Sam frowned. “I’m not nervous.”

“You’ve been tapping your fingers on the table for the past”-she paused and looked pointedly at the clock-“thirteen minutes.”

“Tapping on the table is usually a sign of impatience, not nerves,” he replied, reaching for the jar. “And I am impatient. She’s a half hour late. It isn’t as if I have nothing to do but wait for her, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.” Trula handed the jar of cherries across the counter and he opened it with ease, the lid making a proud pop. “Hmmmph. I must be getting old,” she grumbled. “Old and weak.”

“Trula, I can think of a lot of words to describe you, but old and weak are not two of them.”

“You heard I was making Belgian waffles for brunch today, didn’t you?” She pretended to glare at him. “That’s why you’re sucking up to me?”

“No. I hadn’t heard that.” Sam handed the jar back to her. “Are you? Making Belgian waffles?”

“I promised Chloe we’d make them for her and her mom, to celebrate Emme coming home. As soon as they arrive, I’ll start. You’re welcome to join us. Assuming of course that your appointment hasn’t arrived yet.” Trula smiled. “It’s hard for people to take you seriously when you go into a meeting with whipped cream on your chin and cherry juice on your shirt.”

“You put whipped cream on your waffles?”

She stared at him as if he had two heads. “I said they were Belgian waffles, Sam. Of course, there’s-”

The doorbell rang.

“That’s probably Fiona.” He started toward the door, then looked back over his shoulder at the waffle maker Trula was setting up on the counter.

“Go,” she told him. “I’ll save you something. Maybe.”

Sam could see through the sidelights next to the front door that it was in fact Fiona Summers who’d rung the bell. They’d never met, but he’d seen her at several meetings. She almost always came in alone, usually just as the doors were closing, and always took a seat in the back of the room. He couldn’t remember her ever speaking out or contributing to a discussion. He didn’t think she’d been in his unit all that long and couldn’t remember where or when he’d first seen her. She was a self-professed loner, he recalled as he opened the front door. Just as he was.

“Hey, Fiona.” He stood back to permit her to enter.

“Sam.” She stepped inside, all business. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“Miranda’s sister, Portia,” she explained as she set a bulging leather briefcase on the floor. “We ran into each other in the office yesterday, and she said that you and she went way back.”

“Yeah, we worked together a couple of times.” He started to shut the door behind her.

“Hold up.” She reached toward the door to keep him from closing it. “I have to go back to my car for the rest of it.”

“The rest of it?”

“The rest of the files.” She went down the front steps and Sam followed her. When he caught up with her at the trunk of her car, she’d already popped the lid. Inside were three cardboard file boxes.