“Where exactly?” I ask.

“Back to New Orleans,” Robb says. “I’m not sure where. They were trying to buy a house, I think, but I don’t know whether they did. The insurance payout from the old one wasn’t much, but Mrs. Dyer was a nurse, so she might have saved something while they were here.”

Gina frowns. “Nurses don’t make that much.”

“You have a number where I can reach them?”

Robb’s cheeks color. “I don’t know that we do.”

“We haven’t heard from them in ages,” Gina says.

Robb gives me a pained look, then shrugs. He’d been so proud of Hannah for befriending the girl, prompted by his encouragement, but he hadn’t bothered to keep in touch himself. Reading my mind, he nods slowly.

“I feel bad about it,” he says. “Hypocritical. But with everything going on, I have to be honest, the Dyers leaving was a bit of a relief. I kept telling myself to follow up, but I never did.”

“Would anybody at the church have a contact number?”

“I don’t know. I could check around.”

“I’d appreciate that. One more thing. Fontaine said Evey – it’s Evey Dyer, right? – he said she would kind of explode on people. Is that right?”

Gina nods. “She did it with me once.” She takes a sip of coffee, gulps hard. “It was kind of scary to be honest. The girl had a mouth on her, but it was more than that. I don’t know if Carter told you, but she’s had a tough life. Spent time on the street as a runaway, did things I don’t even like to think about. I found her in the women’s restroom up at the church one Sunday and she was just bawling. I don’t know why, or what had happened, but I went to put an arm around her and she just flipped out. She started pushing me back and screaming and her hair was flying everywhere. And the things she was saying…” She shudders. “Finally she pushed me so hard I fell back into one of the toilet stalls.”

Robb listens silently, hands over his mouth.

“Then, as quick as it started, it all went away. She helped me up and kept apologizing and she was begging me not to tell anyone.” She glances at her husband. “Besides him, I didn’t.”

“Was she ever like that with Hannah?” I ask.

She shrugs.

“They had a strange bond,” Robb says. “Evey told Hannah a lot of things about herself she wouldn’t share with anyone else. Most of what we know, really, comes secondhand from Hannah. Like I said, when she and her mom moved back, I was relieved. After Gina told me what had happened in the restroom, I was always afraid of a repeat.”

According to the breakfast nook clock, it’s edging close to midnight. I’ve imposed long enough, especially considering how easily this could have been handled by phone. Still, in person there are nuances you miss over the line. And it’s not like I was going to get any sleep.

“Last thing,” I say. “You don’t happen to have a photograph of Evangeline Dyer, do you? Maybe the two of them together?”

They glance at each other, then shrug.

“No problem. I’ll check the computer. Sounds like this girl might have a record.”

As I descend the stairs outside, Robb comes out of the apartment alone, trailing after me, calling in a hushed voice.

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

“What I said the other day? I was serious. I need to do something. There has to be some way I can help.”

“You’re doing plenty. I don’t know what more to tell you.”

“I could track the Dyers down for you,” he says. “Or that picture you wanted? I could ask around and find one. Maybe I could talk to people again, see if they’d open up to me in a way they wouldn’t with the police.”

He looks to me for agreement, with a desperate eagerness that’s a little appalling, unaware that not only is he asking me for something I don’t have the power to grant but he’s also conforming to a stereotype well known to law enforcement: the guilty helper. When a civilian suddenly offers up his services, you always take a harder look at him, because more than likely he’s involved – or so the thinking goes. I think I know what motivates Robb, though. Not his involvement, but his lack of it, for he’s convinced if only he’d invested more of himself before the fact, none of this would have happened.

“I appreciate your feelings, Mr. Robb, but – ”

“Anything,” he says.

I stroke my chin, buying time, wracking my brain for a non-binding exit strategy. “If you can track down a number for the Dyers in New Orleans, that would be fine. And if you want to talk to the kids in your youth group, see if anything else comes up, go right ahead. But beyond that – ”

“Thank you.” He grips my hand and gives it a shake. “I’m grateful, really. I’ll do whatever I can and get back to you. And if you think of anything else, just let me know.”

“I’ll do that,” I say, slipping away, making a beeline for my parked car before he can offer up additional thanks.

The next morning I roll over to find Charlotte’s side of the bed empty. The slight dimple in the mattress is still warm. I throw on some clothes and pad down the stairs. She’s in the kitchen, fully dressed, gazing out the window over the sink.

I kiss her warm cheek, then brush the hair from her neck. “You all right? You’re up early.”

“Just thinking,” she says.

I open the refrigerator, pour out the last of the orange juice, splashing half of it into a second cup, which I place in her waiting hand.

“I’d like things to be how they were,” she says. “No, that’s not right. I want them to be how they should be. In the future, I mean.”

“Okay.” I’m a little baffled.

“Ann said something last night. When we were doing the dishes. She said we didn’t seem happy anymore. Do you think that’s true?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re lying. I can tell, you know. My husband’s a detective.”

“Things can be like they were – ”

“They’ll never be like they were,” she says. “I know that. I’m not naive. But I want them to be good again. All right?”

I down the orange juice, lower the glass. “I want that, too.”

Upstairs, my mobile phone starts to ring. I should honor the moment by letting it go, but the moment’s already as good as it can get. I kiss her on the juice-dampened lips and rush the stairs two at a time. The phone flashes on the nightstand charger.

“Hello?”

“March, it’s Wilcox. Good news.”

“I have the go-ahead to approach Thomson?”

“So long as he’s willing to give us everything, we’re prepared to work with him on the rest.”

“He wants it in writing.”

“Should I fax it over, or do you want to swing by?”

“I’d better come by. The fewer people who know, the better.”

When I head back downstairs to tell Charlotte, she’s standing in the open back door, arms crossed, glaring up at the apartment over the garage. I come up behind her, resting my cheek against her neck. At the top of the stairs, I catch sight of a girl in a crop top and tight jeans just disappearing into the apartment.

“You’ve got to take care of that, too,” she says.

“I did have a talk with him.”

“A talk’s not enough.” She turns, puts her hands around my waist. “He’s got to go. It’s past the point of talking. Just get him out.”

My hand rests on the small of her back and I inhale the scent of her hair.

“I’ll do what I can,” I say. “Whatever you want.”