I let out a whoop I was sure everyone on the street must have heard even with the windows closed.

It was my girl.

It was Syd.

TEN

NOT THAT THE PICTURE WAS PERFECT. It was no more than a fleeting shot of Syd. The background was nothing more than a beige wall and a small glass door, maybe two feet square, with the words FIRE EXTINGUISHER stenciled on it in red, the first “I” nearly worn off. The letters are more in focus than Syd, who is moving through the frame, right to left, just about to move out of the picture. She’s in profile, leaning forward into her stride, her head tilted down so her blonde hair is hanging forward. There’s not much of her face to see but the tip of her nose, and I’d know that nose anywhere.

But it wasn’t just Syd’s nose that convinced me it was her. It was the light, summery scarf she’d wrapped fashionably about her neck. Coral in color, crinkly in texture, thin and wispy, with a fringe at the end. Her mother had bought it for her a few months ago on a shopping excursion into Manhattan.

I had a reputation in my house as someone who wouldn’t notice if his wife or daughter walked into the room in a neon wedding gown. Different eye shadows and nail colors eluded me. But I remembered the first time I saw Sydney wearing that scarf, the smart way she’d tied it, the blazing coral contrasting with her blonde hair.

When Syd got in the car one recent morning wearing it, I’d said, “That’s sharp.”

And Syd had replied, “Whoa. Get your cataracts fixed?”

The scarf, matched with the hair, the tilt of the girl’s head, the nose, left no doubt in my mind.

I double-checked that I had everything I needed for my trip. Before grabbing my bag and heading out the door, I emailed Yolanda a brief message: “It’s her. I’ll be in Seattle this evening. See you then. Thanks so much.”

There was one stop to make along the way. I wheeled into Riverside Honda just after ten. There were sales staff on the floor, but that early in the morning, unless it was a Saturday, was not a busy time. I saw Andy Hertz was at his desk, but instead of popping by mine, I went straight to Laura Cantrell’s office. I rapped not so lightly on the open door.

“Hey,” I said.

She looked up from some sales report she was reading, removed the glasses she wore for that kind of detail work, and set them on her desk. “Tim,” she said.

“I’m taking some time off,” I said. I wasn’t asking for permission.

The perfect eyebrows went up a quarter of an inch. “Oh?”

“I have a lead on Syd,” I said. “I’m going to Seattle.”

Laura pushed back her chair and stood up, took a couple of steps toward me. “You’ve found her?”

“I know she’s been out there. She’s been seen a couple of times at a drop-in place.”

“That must be a huge relief,” she said. “To know that she’s not…”

“Yes,” I said. I’d learned that as bad as it was to have a daughter who was missing, it was better than having a daughter who was missing that you knew to be dead. “I’m catching a flight in three hours. I could be a couple of days, but I could be longer. I simply don’t know.”

Laura nodded. “Take as much time as you need.”

Was this the same Laura who threatened to give my desk to someone else if I didn’t get my sales numbers up?

“Thanks,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“About the other day. I gave you a hard time.” She’d taken another step closer to me. I could smell her perfume.

“Yeah, well, I guess you do what you have to do,” I said.

“You know how it goes. They’re leaning on me, too. At the end of the day, it’s all about numbers. I’ll bet, when you had your dealership, you had to ride people hard.”

That was part of the problem. I didn’t. I was always the nice guy, the one who understood, the one who said, hey, you need some time, take some time. Used to drive Susanne crazy.

“Sure,” I said.

“Maybe,” Laura said, “when you get back, and bring Cindy home with you, we should have a drink or something.”

I couldn’t be bothered to correct her this time. “Sounds great, Laura,” I said. “I’ve got to get going.”

I headed for my desk. Andy was scouring the used-car classifieds in the New Haven Register, circling numbers.

“Morning,” I said. Andy glanced up, grunted a greeting. He looked stressed.

My phone was flashing. I had a message from a couple who’d bought a van from me four years ago. Their kids were older now and they were thinking of getting into an Accord or a Pilot. I scribbled down their phone number, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Andy.

“Probably an easy sale. Good people. Tell them I had business that took me out of town, that I asked you, personally, to look after them.”

“Jesus, Tim, thanks.”

“No problem.”

“I owe you.”

“No kidding.”

He asked where I was going and I told him. Said I’d be gone at least a couple of days.

“I hope she’s okay,” he said.

S YDNEY, ELEVEN YEARS OLD:

A boy named Jeffrey Wilshire walks her home from school. It’s the second time he has done this. His attentions do not go unnoticed by Susanne or me.

I am driving her to an evening dance class. This was just before she gave up ballet. The whole prancing-about-in-tights thing no longer appealed to her. It hadn’t for some time, but her mother kept pressing her to take it. “If you drop it, you’ll be sorry.”

Finally, Syd did, and she was not.

So I am driving her to her lesson and say casually, “So this Jeffrey fellow, he seems to be taking an interest in you.”

“Please,” Syd says.

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s always waiting for me to come out at the end of the day so he can walk with me. I keep hoping Mrs. Whattley will give us a detention so maybe he’ll get tired and go home.”

“Oh,” I say.

We drive a bit farther, and Syd says, “He likes to blow up frogs.”

“What? Who likes to blow up frogs?”

“Jeffrey. He and this other boy-you know Michael Dingley?”

“No.”

“Anyway, Mom does, because Mom and his mother used to be volunteer drivers when we did that trip to the fire station last year.”

“Okay. Tell me about Jeffrey.”

“So they catch frogs, and then they stick firecrackers into their mouths and then they light the firecrackers and blow the frogs up.”

“That’s sick,” I say. Detonating animals was not, at least in my case, a rite of passage on the way to adulthood.

“They think it’s really funny,” Syd says.

“It’s not funny.”

“I mean, I know we eat animals and everything,” she says. “Didn’t Mom used to be a vegetarian?”

“For a while.”

“Why’d she stop?”

I shrug. “Cheeseburgers. She felt life wasn’t worth living without cheeseburgers. But it’s one thing to kill an animal for food, and another to take pleasure in its suffering.”

She thinks about that a minute. “Why would someone do that?”

“What?”

“Kill something for fun?”

“Some people are wired wrong.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I mean, some people think it’s fun to make others suffer.”

Syd looks out her window. “I’m always thinking about what the other person is feeling.” A pause. “Or animal.”

“That’s what makes you a good person.”

“Doesn’t Jeffrey know that the frog feels pain?”

“If he does, he doesn’t care.”

“Does that make Jeffrey evil?”

“Evil?” The question throws me. “Yeah, maybe.”

“He said, one time, he put a live hamster in a microwave and turned it on.”

“Don’t let him walk you home from school anymore,” I say. “How about, for the next couple of days, your mother or I will pick you up?”

I LISTENED TO SOME MORE of Syd’s tunes on the way to LaGuardia. I had to turn it off halfway through Joe Cocker’s “You Are So Beautiful to Me.” I don’t want to tear up on the 95. I didn’t want to end up in a story under the headline “Weeping Father Makes Fatal Lane Change.”