It would be enough.

Adam leaned close to Rinsky. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“You kidding?” The old man arched an eyebrow. “I’m just going to try not to enjoy it.”

Three of the reporters were jammed into the plastic-covered sofa. Another leaned on the upright piano against the wall. A birdhouse-shaped cuckoo clock hung on the far wall. There were more Hummel figurines on the end table. The once shag carpet had been trampled into something resembling artificial turf.

Adam checked his phone one last time. Still nothing on the phone tracker about Corinne. She either hadn’t charged up her phone or . . . no point in thinking about that now. The reporters were looking at him both expectantly and skeptically, half “let’s see what you got,” half “this is a waste of time.” Adam stepped forward. Mr. Rinsky stayed where he was.

“In 1970,” Adam began without preamble, “Michael J. Rinsky returned home after serving his country in the most hostile battlegrounds of Vietnam. He came back here, to his beloved hometown, and married his high school sweetheart, Eunice Schaeffer. Then, using the money he earned from his GI Bill, Mike Rinsky bought a home.”

Adam paused. Then he added, “This home.”

The reporters scribbled.

“Mike and Eunice had three boys and raised them in this very house. Mike got a job with the local police, starting as a rookie patrolman, and moved up the ranks until he was chief. He and Eunice have been important members of this community for many years. They volunteered at the local shelter, the town library, the Biddy Basketball program, the July Fourth parade. In the past nearly fifty years, Mike and Eunice touched so many lives in this town. They worked hard. When Mike left the stresses of work, he came home to relax in this very house. He rebuilt the boiler in the basement on his own. His children grew older, graduated, and moved out. Mike kept working and eventually, after thirty years, he paid off the mortgage. Now he owns this house—the house we are all in right now—outright.”

Adam glanced behind him. As if on cue—well, it was on cue—the old man hunched his shoulders, made his face droop, and held an old framed photograph of Eunice in front of him.

“And then,” Adam continued, “Eunice Rinsky got sick. We won’t invade her privacy by going into the details. But Eunice loves this house. It comforts her. New places frighten her now, and she finds solace in the place where she and her beloved husband raised Mike Junior, Danny, and Bill. And now, after a lifetime of work and sacrifice, the government wants to take this home—her home—away from her.”

The scribbling stopped. Adam wanted to let the moment weigh on them, so he reached behind him, took hold of the water bottle, and wetted his throat. When he started up again, his voice seethed and started cracking with barely controlled rage.

“The government wants to throw Mike and Eunice out of the only home they’ve ever known so some wealthy conglomerate can knock it down and build a Banana Republic.” Not strictly true, Adam thought, but close enough. “This man”—Adam gestured behind him at Old Man Rinsky, who was playing his part with gusto, managing to look even more fragile somehow—“this American hero and patriot, just wants to keep the home he worked so hard to own. That’s all. And they want to take it away from him. I ask you, does that sound like the United States of America? Does our government seize hardworking people’s property and give it to the rich? Do we throw war heroes and elderly women into the streets? Do we just take away their home after they’ve worked a lifetime to pay it off? Do we just bulldoze their dreams to create yet another strip mall?”

They were all looking at Old Man Rinsky now. Even Adam was starting to well up for real. Sure, he had left some parts out—how they had offered to pay the Rinskys more than the house was worth, for example—but this wasn’t about being balanced. Attorneys take sides. The other side, if and when they responded, would give their spin. You were supposed to be biased. That was how the system worked.

Someone snapped a photograph of Old Man Rinsky. Then someone else. Hands were raised for questions. A reporter shouted out, asking Old Man Rinksy how he felt. He played it smart, looking lost and fragile, not so much angry as bewildered. He shrugged, held up the picture of his wife, and simply said, “Eunice wants to spend her last days here.”

Game, set, match, Adam thought.

Let the other side spin the facts all they want. The sound bite belonged to them. The better story—and that was really what the media always wanted, not the truest story but the best—belonged to them. What would make a more compelling narrative—a big conglomerate throwing a war hero and his ill wife out of their home, or a stubborn old man who is preventing rejuvenation by not taking money and moving into better digs?

It wouldn’t be close.

A half hour later, with the reporters gone, Gribbel smiled and tapped Adam on the shoulder. “It’s Mayor Gush for you.”

Adam took the phone. “Hello, Mr. Mayor.”

“You think this is going to work?”

“The Today show just called. They want us to come in tomorrow morning for an exclusive interview. I said not yet.”

It was a bluff, but a pretty good one.

“You know how fast a news cycle is nowadays?” Gush countered. “We can ride it out.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Adam said.

“Why not?”

“Because for now, we have decided to make our case impersonal and corporate. But our next move will be to take it a step further.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that we will reveal that the mayor, who is working so hard to throw an old couple out of their home, may have a personal grudge against an honest cop who once arrested him, even though he let him go.”

Silence. Then: “I was a teenager.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that will play well in the press.”

“You don’t know who you’re messing with, pal.”

“I think I have a pretty good idea,” Adam said. “Gush?”

“What?”

“Build your new village around the house. It’s doable. Oh, and have a nice day.”

•   •   •

Everyone had cleared out of the Rinskys’ house.

Adam heard the clacking of a keyboard in the breakfast nook off the kitchen. When he entered the room, he was taken aback by the sheer amount of technology that surrounded him. There were two big-screen computers and a laser printer sitting on the Formica desk. One wall was entirely corked. Photographs, clippings from newspapers, and articles printed off the Internet were hung on it with pushpins.

Rinsky had reading glasses low on his nose. The reflection of the screen made the blue in his eyes deepen.

“What’s all this?” Adam asked.

“Just keeping busy.” He leaned back and took off the glasses. “It’s a hobby.”

“Surfing the web?”

“Not exactly.” He pointed behind him. “See this photograph?”

It was a picture of a girl with her eyes closed who Adam guessed was probably between eighteen and twenty. “Is she dead?”

“Since 1984,” Rinsky said. “Her body was found in Madison, Wisconsin.”

“A student?”

“Doubt it,” he said. “You’d think a student would be easy to identify. No one ever has.”

“She’s a Jane Doe?”

“Right. So you see, me and some fellas online, we crowdsource the problem. Share information.”

“You’re solving cold cases?”

“Well, we try.” He gave Adam his “aw shucks” smile. “Like I said, it’s a hobby. Keeps an old cop busy.”

“Hey, I have a quick question for you.”

Rinsky gestured for Adam to go ahead.

“I have a witness I need to reach. I’m a firm believer in doing it in person.”

“Always better,” Rinsky agreed.

“Right, but I’m not sure if she’s home or not, and I don’t want to warn her or ask her to meet me.”

“You want to surprise her?”

“Right.”

“What’s her name?”