“I just don’t know,” he said. “Like I said, we’re just sort of friends now. Maybe, before, she would have told me.”

If she hadn’t dumped me, he seemed to be saying, maybe I’d be able to help you now.

“If you think of anything…” I said, not bothering to finish.

“I got to take off,” Jeff said. “I just wanted to come by and see how it was going. Can you tell Patty I had to beat it?”

“Sure,” I said.

About a minute after he left, Patty came back down to the kitchen. “Where’s Jeff?” she asked. “He go back to the circus?”

“What?”

“You know. The tranquilized bears they train to ride the little bicycles?”

“That’s mean, Patty,” I said.

“I say it to his face,” she said. “He’s cool with it. He knows I’m kidding.”

“It’s still mean.”

She was all innocent. “He’s a big boy. You should hear the stuff he says about us. About the girls.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Like we’re all a bunch of skanky sluts. But he’s just joking around, too. And he’s wound up kind of tight, too, you know? Like, you say ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’ around him and he gets all weird, like he’s a goddamn minister or something.”

“Why would he call Syd a skanky slut?”

“Oh, so you’re not surprised he’d call me that.”

I wouldn’t be baited. “Patty, you push the envelope. It’s your thing. I’d never call you a skanky slut, but a girl who walks into a house and the first thing out of her mouth is ‘motherfucker’ shouldn’t be shocked by what people might think.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Go on.”

“But Sydney, so far as I know, didn’t do anything to cultivate that kind of an image.”

“Cultivate,” Patty said. “Yeah.”

“So why would Jeff say that about her?”

Patty actually gave it some thought. “I think, maybe, because she dumped him, Jeff was thinking, okay, if I run her down, then maybe she was never worthy of me in the first place.”

I nodded. “That’s pretty good.”

Patty noticed some canned goods still on the counter and started putting them away in the cupboard. She followed me around the house for the next couple of hours, helping me tidy, asking me where things went, taking bags of garbage to the side of the house and jamming them into the cans. We worked side by side, and although sometimes we were tripping over each other’s feet and bumping shoulders, we got a rhythm going. Patty’d hold a trash bag open, I’d dump stuff into it. I’d get the vacuum out, she’d move a chair out of the way.

She threw herself into it, working up a sweat, a stubborn strand of streaked hair repeatedly falling forward into her eyes. She tried blowing it away, and when that didn’t work, tucked it behind her ear until it came free a few seconds later.

We were standing in the kitchen, having a drink of water.

“That thing you said, about DVD players in vans being a sign of the end of civilization?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“You might be onto something.”

She smiled. An honest, genuine smile. It reminded me a little of Sydney’s. I fought not to let the thought ruin this moment Patty and I were sharing.

She said, seemingly out of nowhere, but maybe not, “My dad was a complete asshole.”

I didn’t ask.

I CALLED LAURA CANTRELL and brought her up to date. No Syd, trashed house. Laura said that was too bad. Once she was done with that outpouring of sympathy, she was about to ask when I was coming back to work. I headed her off at the pass and told her I’d be in for the afternoon sales shift, which began at three.

In some ways it made no sense going back to work. The mystery surrounding Syd’s disappearance had deepened. I felt I should be out searching for her, but I didn’t know where to turn anymore. I felt overwhelmed and powerless.

I couldn’t just hang around the house. With Patty’s help, I’d made a lot of progress getting the place back in order. I couldn’t sit there waiting for the phone to ring or an email to land. People knew how to reach me at the dealership.

I left the house around two-thirty. I plugged Syd’s iPod into the outlet in the CR-V as I drove along the Post Road to work.

If there was any pleasure in my life these days, it was learning about the music that my daughter enjoyed. Eclectic, to say the least. Punk, jazz, rock, classic pop tunes from the sixties and seventies.

I was haunted by some words sung by Janis Ian: “It isn’t all it seems, at seventeen.”

And when that song finished, something totally unfamiliar, and less professional, followed. First, some guitar reverberations, like someone was tuning up, getting ready to play. Then a bit of coughing, some giggling, then a young woman’s voice taunting, “Are you going to play it or what?”

Syd.

“Okay, okay,” a young man answered. “Just give me a second. I can lay the voices in right over what’s on the computer.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s going,” Sydney said.

“Okay, we’re good. Okay, so, this is a little song I wrote myself that I would like to sing-”

Sydney, adopting a mocking, low voice, interrupted with, “This is a little song I wrote myself I would like to-”

The boy said, “Would you knock it off?” Sydney made a snorting noise before the boy continued, “Okay, so, like, this song is called ‘Dirty Love’ and it is dedicated to Sydney.”

She began to giggle in the background. “Would you settle the fuck down?” the boy said.

I thumbed up the volume on the steering wheel-mounted control.

The boy belted out no more than a couple of lines. His voice was ragged, a harsh whisper with limited range. He sang, “She came into my life by chance, with a smile that put me in a trance.”

“Okay, stop,” Syd said. “I’m gonna puke. And I thought you were going to say, ‘She came into my life by chance, I can’t wait to get into her pants.’”

Now they were both laughing.

Sydney and Evan Janigan.

TWENTY

I NEARLY CLIPPED A FORD WINDSTAR when I did a U-turn on Route 1 and headed flat-out for Bob’s Motors.

There wasn’t any more to the selection. Once The Sydney and Evan Show finished, the iPod jumped to another song from the White Album, “Rocky Raccoon.” I hit the back button to put it on the previous track, then paused it.

The CR-V doesn’t exactly handle like a sports car, so when it bumped up over the curb leading into the Bob’s Motors lot, I nearly lost control. But I gripped the wheel firmly, got the car back on track, and spotted Evan at the far end of a line of cars, a washing wand in his hand. I sped down to where he was, hit the brakes, and screeched to a stop.

He held the wand suspended in midair, water trickling out the end, and looked over at me through the dark locks that hung across his face.

I killed the ignition and as I got out of the car took the metallic green, match-pack-sized music player with me. Without headphones it wasn’t as if I could play his song for him, but I thought holding it up for effect would make my point.

It did. The moment Evan saw what was in my hand, his mouth hung open.

Even though I was walking, I was coming at him pretty fast. Speaking over the flapping of the multicolored pennant flags strung overhead, I said, “We need to have a little chat, Evan.”

“What the fuck,” he said.

I closed the distance between us, took the wand from Evan’s hand, and tossed it to the pavement. “So you and Sydney weren’t that close, huh? All you did was have dinner at the same table.”

“I don’t know what your deal is, man, but you’re not my fucking father, you know?” he said.

“No, but I’m Sydney’s fucking father, and I want to know what was actually going on between you two.” I’d moved even closer, forcing Evan up against a wet blue Kia sedan.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Tim!” It was Susanne, standing atop the stairs that led up to the office. “Tim! What’s going on?”