We park on the street, and Maguire leads me to the back door, which isn’t locked. That’s not an uncommon occurrence around here; in spite of all my warnings about being safe instead of sorry, a lot of folks make the incorrect assumption that crime could not and does not happen in this town.

In the mudroom, there’s a mélange of items-from the coat that must belong to the girl to a walking stick to a pair of men’s boots. The kitchen is tidy, and there is a mug in the sink with a tea bag in it. “I didn’t touch anything,” Maguire says. “This was all here when I showed up this morning.” The mail is stacked neatly in a pile on the table. A purse lies on its side, and I open it to find a wallet with $213 still in it.

“Did you notice anything missing?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Maguire says. “Upstairs.” He leads me to a guest bedroom where the drawers of a single dresser are half open, clothes spilling out of them. “She’s a neat freak,” he says. “She’d never leave the bed unmade, or have clothes lying around the floor like this. But this box with the gift wrap on it? It had a backpack inside that’s gone now. It still had the tags on it. Her aunt got it for her for Christmas, and she hated it.”

I walk to the closet. Inside are several dresses, as well as a few button-down men’s shirts and pairs of jeans. “Those are mine,” Maguire says.

“You live here, too?”

“Not officially, as far as the professor goes. But yeah, I’ve been staying over most nights. Until she kicked me out, anyway.”

“She kicked you out?”

“I told you, we kind of had a fight. She didn’t want to talk to me on Sunday night. But Monday, we’d worked things out.”

“Define that,” I say.

“We had sex,” Maguire replies.

“Consensual?”

“Jesus, dude. What kind of guy do you think I am?” He seems truly affronted.

“What about her makeup? Her toiletries?”

“Her toothbrush is missing,” Maguire says. “But her makeup’s still here. Look, shouldn’t you be calling in backup or something? Or posting an AMBER Alert?”

I ignore him. “Did you try contacting her parents? Where do they live?”

“I called them-they’re in Bennington, and they haven’t heard from her, and now they’re in a panic, too.”

Great, I think. “Has she ever disappeared like this before?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only been going out with her for a few months.”

“Look,” I say. “If you stick around, she’ll probably call, or just come back home. Sounds to me like she needed to cool off for a while.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Maguire says. “If she left on purpose, why would she forget to take her wallet but remember her cell phone? Why would she use a backpack she couldn’t wait to return for store credit?”

“I don’t know. To throw you off her trail, maybe?”

Maguire’s eyes flash, and I know the moment before he springs that he is going to come after me. I throw him off with one quick move that twists his arm behind his back. “Careful,” I mutter. “I could arrest you for that.”

Maguire tenses in my hold. “My girlfriend’s gone missing. I pay your salary, and you won’t even do your job and investigate?”

Technically, if Maguire is a student, he’s not paying my salary, but I am not about to press the point. “Tell you what,” I say, releasing him. “I’ll take one more look around.”

I wander into the master bedroom, but clearly Jess Ogilvy hasn’t been sleeping there; it is pristine. The master bathroom reveals slightly damp towels, but the shower floor is already dry. Downstairs, there’s no sign of disorder in the living room. I walk around the perimeter of the house and then check the mailbox. Inside is a note, printed from a computer, asking the postman to hold the mail until further notified.

Who the hell types a note to the postman?

Snapping on a pair of gloves, I slip the note into an evidence bag. I’ll have the lab run a ninhydrin test for prints.

Right now, my hunch is that if they don’t match Jess Ogilvy’s, they’re going to match Mark Maguire’s.

I don’t know what to expect when I go into Jacob’s room the next morning. He slept through the night-I checked on him every hour-but I know from past experience that he won’t be expressive until those neurotransmitters aren’t raging through his bloodstream anymore.

I called Jess twice-on her cell, and at her new residence-but only got voice mail. I’ve sent her an email, asking her to tell me what happened at yesterday’s session, if there was anything out of the ordinary. But until I hear back from her, I have to deal with Jacob.

When I peek in at 6:00 A.M., he’s not sleeping anymore. He’s sitting on his bed with his hands in his lap, staring at the wall across from him.

“Jacob?” I say tentatively. “Honey?” I walk closer and gently shake him.

Jacob continues to stare at the wall in silence. I wave a hand in front of his face, but he doesn’t respond.

“Jacob!” I grab his shoulders and pull on them. He topples to the side and just lies where he has fallen.

Panic climbs the ladder of my throat. “Speak to me,” I demand. I am thinking catatonia. I am thinking schizophrenia. I am thinking of all the lost places Jacob could slip to in his own mind, and not return.

Straddling his big body, I strike him hard enough across the face to leave a red handprint, and still he doesn’t react.

“Don’t,” I say, starting to cry. “Don’t do this to me.”

There is a voice at the door. “What’s going on?” Theo asks, his face still hazy with sleep and his hair sticking up in hedgehog spikes.

In that instant, I realize that Theo might be my savior. “Say something that would upset your brother,” I order.

He looks at me as if I’m crazy.

“There’s something wrong with him,” I explain, my voice breaking. “I just want him to come back. I need to make him come back.”

Theo glances down at Jacob’s slack body, his vacant eyes, and I can tell he’s scared. “But-”

“Do it, Theo,” I say.

I think it’s the quiver in my voice, not the command, which makes him agree. Tentatively, Theo leans close to Jacob. “Wake up!”

“Theo,” I sigh. We both know he’s holding back.

“You’re going to be late for school,” Theo says. I watch closely, but there’s no recognition in Jacob’s eyes.

“I’m getting in the shower first,” Theo adds. “And then I’m gonna mess up your closet.” When Jacob just stays silent, the anger Theo usually keeps hidden rolls over him like a tsunami. “You freak,” he shouts, so loud that Jacob’s hair stirs with the force of his breath. “You stupid goddamn freak!”

Jacob doesn’t even flinch.

“Why can’t you be normal?” Theo yells, punching his brother in the chest. He hits him again, harder this time. “Just be fucking normal!” he cries, and I realize tears are streaming down Theo’s face. For a moment, we are caught in this hell, with Jacob unresponsive between us.

“Get me a phone,” I say, and Theo turns and flies out the door.

As I sink down beside Jacob, the bulk of his weight sways toward me. Theo reappears with the telephone, and I punch in the page number for Jacob’s psychiatrist, Dr. Murano. She calls me back thirty seconds later, her voice still rough with sleep. “Emma,” she says. “What’s going on?”

I explain Jacob’s meltdown last night, and his catatonia this morning. “And you don’t know what triggered it?” she asks.

“No. He had a meeting with his tutor yesterday.” I look at Jacob. A line of drool snakes from the corner of his mouth. “I called her, but she hasn’t phoned me back yet.”

“Does he look like he’s in physical distress?”

No, I think. That would be me. “I don’t know… I don’t think so.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know who you are?”

“No,” I admit, and this is what really scares me. If he doesn’t know who I am, how can I help him remember who he is?