"Sorry, man. I didn't mean anything by it. I just think psychic stuff is cool, that's all."

"I'm starved." Gillian gave Ben's arm a friendly, reassuring squeeze and a smile that verged on being conspiratorial. Don't let my crazy sister get to you, it seemed to say. "Why don't we see if there's any place in this town to grab some food?"

"Not until we interview the parents," Mary said.

Ben shrugged off his backpack and unzipped the front pocket. "My blood sugar gets weird sometimes, so I always carry a couple of these." He held a wrapped rectangle out to Mary, his arm straight. "It's a granola bar. I make them myself. Go ahead." He shook it at her. "Take it. It'll help until we get a chance to eat."

A peace offering.

It seemed they were all holding their breath, waiting to see how Mary would react. She smiled tightly. "Thanks." She unwrapped it and took a bite, hoping it didn't contain pot, quickly discovering that it was full of healthy things like raisins and nuts and sunflower seeds. It was delicious, and she told him so.

Ben beamed, happy to be of assistance.

The bar reminded her of some of Blythe's healthy concoctions. "I can see that you're going to have to meet our mother," Mary said.

The parents had been put upstairs in a small office. In an attempt to make the interview as easy as possible on the distraught couple, it was decided that Mary and Gillian would speak to them while the men waited outside.

Mary stopped her sister near the door. "It will be less confusing if only one of us does the questioning," she whispered. She waited for Gillian's response, hoping she wouldn't have to pull rank.

At first Gillian seemed prepared to argue-a conditioned reaction. Mary watched as her sister's irritation gave way to understanding and finally relief. Wisdom and experience were on Mary's side.

"Good idea," Gillian said.

The mother, dressed in a red sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, was hysterical; the father, a burly man in a heavy plaid shirt, was emotionless and brittle with shock. Two others-a man and woman-hovered nearby. They all looked as if they were farmers-hardworking and earnest.

Mary began with the standard questions: Did their daughter know anyone she may have left with? Had she been acting differently lately? Hanging around with new acquaintances? Did she know anyone who may have talked her into leaving with him or her? Know anyone who may have taken her against her will? Had she mentioned meeting anyone new, anyone strange? What was her schedule?. What was she wearing?

During questioning, the parents' minds would wander, and their attention would have to be gently coaxed back. Several times the mother broke down, and the husband held her in his arms.

Then came their questions, the ones Mary always dreaded.

"You'll find her, won't you?"

"She'll be okay, won't she?"

This was always the worst part, talking to the parents. Worse than watching the autopsy of a child. Worse than staring into the cold eyes of a mass murderer.

"There's no connection between her kidnapping and the deaths of those other girls, is there? Please tell us there isn't."

Mary glanced at Gillian. Her sister's eyes were glassy with tears; she didn't look in any shape to answer. "We don't know," Mary said.

"You must have some idea. Are you hiding something? Not telling us something?"

"We aren't hiding anything. As soon as we have any information, you'll be the first to know."

The man pressed his lips together and nodded. "My daughter's a good girl, a strong girl. She grew up on a farm and knows how to take care of herself. She'll be okay. I know she'll be okay."

Both parents looked from Mary to Gillian, desperately begging for reassurance that couldn't be given.

Chapter 10

After spending all day and into the evening investigating the Canary Falls kidnapping, Gillian returned to her apartment in Dinkytown, but she couldn't sleep. As she lay in bed, the events of the day kept replaying in her mind, especially the interview with the missing girl's parents. How did Mary do it? she wondered. Deal directly with the victim's families like that? Did she have trouble sleeping? Was she awake right now?

Gillian's reflections were disturbed by the sound of someone knocking on her door. She pressed the button on her digital alarm clock, and the numbers glowed green: 12:25 a.m.

The knocking continued.

A soft, rhythmic sound.

Wearing a gray BCA T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, she went downstairs and peeked through the living room blinds to see Gavin Hitchcock's car parked next to the curb in front of the duplex.

The knocking continued. The sound was so repetitive and monotonous that it could have been a loop. The style of delivery had Gavin Hitchcock's signature all over it. It was just like him to focus his entire concentration on one thing while blocking out everything else.

She turned the dead bolt and opened the door so the chain caught.

Gavin was a shadowy form standing on her porch.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered.

"Let me in." He sounded desperate. "I have to talk to you."

"It's late."

"Please. Let me in."

She'd always had a soft spot for Gavin, mainly because she knew how tough his life had been and what a struggle it continued to be.

"What's wrong?" she asked over the security chain. Most people were afraid of him, but she wasn't.

"I-I've been having… bad dreams."

The words came reluctantly, like the confession of a frightened child who knew he wasn't supposed to wake his parents.

Her resolve weakened. She closed the door, unlatched the chain, and opened the door. Gavin burst in.

"Don't turn on the light!" he said as she reached for the wall switch.

Instead, she crossed the room and opened the window blinds. "How's that?" Light from the street pooled inside.

He pulled a book of matches from the deep pocket of his army jacket and lit the candles on the coffee table, then tossed the matchbook down and collapsed into the sofa.

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head.

Gillian had grown up knowing who Gavin Hitchcock was. Everybody knew who he was. Every school had a Gavin Hitchcock. He was the kid nobody wanted to sit near. The kid who always had a runny nose. Every time there was a lice outbreak, all eyes turned to Gavin. Gillian had felt sorry for him from a distance, and secretly she'd thought he was kind of cute, that he would actually be good-looking if somebody took the time to clean him up. They didn't have any classes together-he'd been lumped in with the slow students at the beginning of his educational journey. Gavin would have remained someone she passed in the hallway, someone she saw on the playground, if she hadn't come to his rescue one day when they were both in junior high.

She'd been walking home the long way, the scenic way, taking a path over the stone bridge in Tandem Park when she heard a commotion underneath. She leaned over the side to see a group of older kids picking on Gavin, shoving him around, trying to steal the ragged coat he was wearing. On the ground was a tattered blanket, junk food wrappers, and remnants of a campfire, and she wondered if Gavin had been sleeping there.

Her moral senses were outraged, and without any thought she jumped into the battle, screaming and fighting like a wild animal. She was no match for five bullies, but the idiocy of her attack took them by surprise. They knew that what they were doing was wrong, and to be confronted by a scrawny girl made them feel ashamed. They stomped on the jacket, kicked up some dirt, and then ran away, shoving at one another as they did, laughing and acting tough so nobody would think a girl had scared them off.

Ever since then Gavin had looked upon her with awe and hero worship. She used to subject him to her reading obsession of the moment, from Blake to Burroughs to Rimbaud-which he'd suffered with stoicism and good nature.