“It’s okay, Mom,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was going to take Ethan off your hands-”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Just go with him.” She let go and I could see tears welling up in her eyes. “David, I’m sorry, I think I may have said something-”

“What?”

“That detective, he looked at me funny when I said that Jan-”

“Mr. Harwood!”

I looked over my shoulder. Detective Duckworth had the passenger door of his unmarked car open, waiting for me.

“I have to go,” I said. I gave my mother a hug and ran down to Duckworth’s car, hopping into the front seat. He was going to close the door for me, but I grabbed the handle and slammed it shut myself.

When he got into the driver’s seat, I said, “I could just follow you in. Then you wouldn’t have to bring me back.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, putting the car into drive, looking back and then hitting the gas. “This will give us more time to talk.”

“Why are we going to the station?”

Duckworth gave his head a small shake, his way of ignoring my question. “So you came back from Rochester, what, this morning?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And you went out there why again?”

“I was looking for Jan’s parents.”

“The ones she hasn’t spoken to in years.”

“Yes.”

“Did you find them?”

I hesitated. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. But let me ask you something first.”

He glanced over. “Shoot.”

“If the FBI or some other organization, if they put someone in the witness protection program, and they resettle them in your own backyard, do they give you a heads-up about it?”

Duckworth seemed to take a long time before answering, his tongue moving around the inside of his cheek. Finally, “What’s that again?”

I repeated it.

“Well, I guess that might depend on the situation. But generally speaking, the FBI tends to view local law enforcement as a bunch of know-nothing hicks, so my guess is they’d not be inclined to share that kind of information. Also, in their defense, the more people know something like that, the more likely someone’s going to find out.”

I considered that. “That could be.”

“And you’re asking this because…?” Duckworth asked.

“I’m not saying this is what’s happened, but I think it’s just possible that-”

“No, wait, let me guess,” Duckworth said. “Your wife is a witness in hiding. And her cover’s been blown, and now she’s taken off.”

“Is this a joke to you? I thought you’d want to know about this.”

“No, no, that’s a very serious thing,” he said. “Very serious.”

“You think I’m full of shit,” I said.

I thought maybe he’d deny the accusation, and when he didn’t, I said, “I think Jan may not be who she says she is.”

Another glance. Then, “And just who is she, really? Tell me, I’m listening.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve… I’ve found out some things in the last day that don’t make a whole lot of sense to me. And they may have something to do with why Jan’s missing.”

“And what are these things you’ve found out?”

“I went to Rochester and found the people who are listed on Jan’s birth certificate as her parents.”

“And that’s who?”

“Horace and Gretchen Richler. The thing is, they had a daughter named Jan, but she died when she was five.”

The tongue was moving around inside Duckworth’s cheek again. “Okay,” he said.

“It was an accident. Her father hit her with the car, backing out of the driveway.”

“Man,” Duckworth said. “How do you live with that the rest of your life?”

“Yeah.” I gave him a minute for it to sink in. “What do you make of that?”

“You know what? Let me make a call when we get to the station. And while someone’s looking into that, we can talk about some other things.”

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the plain chair at the plain desk in the plain room.

“Isn’t this an interrogation room?” I asked.

“It’s a room,” Duckworth said. “A room is a room. I want to talk to you privately, it’s as good a place as any. But hang on for a second while I make a call about that witness protection thing. You want a coffee or a soft drink or something?”

I said I was okay.

“Be right back, then.” He slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

I walked over to the table, stood there a moment, finally sat down on one of the metal chairs.

This didn’t feel right.

Duckworth brings me in, says he wants to talk about something but doesn’t say what, puts me in a room, leaves me alone.

There was a mirror on one wall. I wondered whether Duckworth was on the other side, watching through one-way glass to see how I behaved. Was I fidgeting, pacing, running my fingers nervously through my hair?

I stayed in the chair, tried to calm down. But inside I was churning.

After about five minutes, the door opened. Duckworth had a coffee in one hand, and a bottled water tucked under his arm so he could turn the knob.

“Got myself a coffee,” he said. “I grabbed you a water, just in case.”

“I’m not an idiot,” I said.

“Say what?”

“I’m not an idiot. The way this is going. Bringing me down here. Leaving me in here to sweat it out for a while on my own. I get it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Duckworth said, pulling up a chair and setting the coffee and water on the table.

“Look, I’m not the greatest reporter in the world. If I were, I wouldn’t be at the Standard. They stopped caring about journalism a long time ago. But I’ve been around long enough to know the score. You think I’m some kind of suspect or something.”

“I never said that.”

“So tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t think I have anything to do with this.”

“How about you tell me about this trip you took up to Lake George two days ago?”

“What?”

“You’ve never mentioned it. Why’s that?”

“Why would I? Jan went missing the following day. Why would I bring up what happened on Friday?”

“Why don’t you tell me about it now?”

“Why is this important?”

“Is there some reason you don’t want to tell me, Mr. Harwood?”

“No, of course not, but-fine. Jan and I drove up to Lake George to meet with a source. Actually, I was meeting with the source. Jan just came along.”

“A source?”

“For a story I’ve been working on.”

“What story is that?”

I hesitated before continuing. Could I discuss with the police stories I was working on for the Standard? Was it ethical? Did it violate journalistic principles?

Did I really, at this moment, give a flying fuck?

“I’ve been working on stories about Star Spangled Corrections wanting to come to Promise Falls. The company has been doing favors for at least one council member that I know of. Someone sent me an email, that there were others taking payoffs or kickbacks, or whatever, to buy their votes when the prison comes up before council for zoning approvals.”

“Who sent you the email?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Oh,” said Duckworth, looking like he wanted to roll his eyes but restraining himself. “Confidentiality. Protecting your source.”

“No,” I said. “The email was anonymous.”

“But if you met with this person, you must know who it is.”

“She didn’t show up,” I said.

“She?”

“She said in her email that I was to look for a woman in a white truck. No woman in a white truck showed up.”

“Where was she supposed to meet you?”

“At a general store/gas station place north of Lake George. Ted’s, it was called.”

“So you drove up there?”

“That’s right. Friday afternoon. She was supposed to come at five.”

“And you took your wife with you?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you do that? Do you normally take your wife along when you’re going to interview someone?”

“Not usually.”

“Have you ever taken your wife with you before when you were on an assignment?”