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Connor stopped in the foyer, but Isaiah did not. He made his way to the living room as if he had been invited and took a seat in a large, pillowy chair that, as it happened, was intended for guests.

Connor followed him. He took a seat on the sofa, put the knife down on the coffee table between them.

“How’s the investigation coming?” Isaiah said.

Good question, Connor thought. “You’d have to ask the police.”

“They haven’t told you anything? No leads they’re working? Nothing like that?”

Connor shrugged, and repeated what Olivia had told him about the man who had died during surgery.

“That’s it?”

“That’s all I know about.”

“That’s not a good sign, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

Isaiah leaned back in the chair. “She told you about the incident at the ER because it’s all she’s got. She wants you to know she’s working the case, but she also wants you to know it’s not going anywhere.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She basically told you that. Has she even followed up with the family yet?”

Connor shrugged again.

“You would know if she had.” Isaiah crossed one leg over the other. “So I guess it’s a good thing I stopped by.”

Here it comes. The big pitch. Connor had been expecting it ever since Isaiah had commented on how the house would play with his audience. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. There was a reason he hadn’t done any TV interviews or even given a quote. God knew he’d had the chance if he’d wanted to. Being in the spotlight just wasn’t his thing, and would it really do anything to help his parents? He doubted it.

“Have you seen our show?”

“I have.”

“Then you know what we could do for you.”

“Actually, Mr. Cook, I’m not so sure I’m interested in doing any TV at all.”

Isaiah rocked forward. “What? Are you serious? Do you know how many calls a show like ours can generate?”

It probably did generate a lot of calls. But there was a more important question. “Has it ever closed any cases?”

“Are you kidding? I can think of a dozen cases right off the top of my head that were put to rest because of the tips that came into our show. You know the story of that kid—Nick Parsons—taken straight out of his backyard in broad daylight? Barely a toddler. You remember that?”

Connor wasn’t certain. It sounded familiar. But this time Isaiah didn’t give him a chance to answer.

“The guy who kidnapped him was in jail a week later thanks to our show. Sick fuck was part of some baby-snatching ring.”

Connor’s eyelids started to close. With the adrenaline wearing off, the Ambien was starting to take effect again. “I appreciate you stopping by,” Connor said as he stood up. “I haven’t slept well. Could I think about this?”

“Oh, sure. Of course,” Isaiah said, likewise standing. “I understand. Really do think about it, though, and call me. I’m back and forth between here and California a lot. But trust me, unless I’m in the air, I’ll answer. Anytime, day or night.”

Connor led Isaiah to the door and closed it behind him. He was starting to understand why Henry had made a point of keeping the reporters out of the house. Were they all as bad as this guy? Connor considered that and decided they were probably worse. If a reporter had managed to get inside, he would likely have kept firing questions until he was physically thrown out.

Connor went upstairs, barely made it to bed. The last thing he thought about before falling asleep was the man who had died during surgery. He was sure Olivia would talk to the man’s family eventually. But it was Connor’s parents who were missing, so why shouldn’t he track them down and talk to them, too?

CHAPTER 8

Connor woke up feeling disoriented and tired. The morning sun sliced through the blinds of his one window, hitting him smack in the face. He squinted, checked the clock. He had been asleep for twelve hours. Good. He had needed it. Once the Ambien finished wearing off, he would probably start to feel a little better.

He sat up, vaguely remembered the conversation with Isaiah from the night before, and checked his pocket for the man’s business card. Okay, so that hadn’t been a dream. Connor tossed the business card onto his nightstand and made his way to the bathroom. He washed his face, ran his wet hands through his hair, trying to tame the worst of it, and applied deodorant. Then he traded one tee shirt for another and called himself done.

Austin would already be at 213 Powder Lane, likely in the midst of tearing out the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen, and Connor had promised him he would be back at work today to help. Anything was better than wandering around this empty house like a ghost. He particularly liked the idea of spending the day smashing drywall with a sledgehammer.

He put his father’s cellphone in the right front pocket of his jeans and his own cellphone in the left. Then he grabbed the keys to the old Ford Fiesta he had been driving since he turned sixteen and headed out of the house. The car had been a hand-me-down from his mother, who, when he had complained it wasn’t new, said no first-time driver needed a new car. She had been right, too. He’d had more accidents than seemed fair, and they had left the vehicle a beaten-up shell of the car she had given him. These days, it barely managed to limp along from one location to the next.

He made the ten-minute trip to Powder Lane in silence. He had no interest in music right now and feared if he turned on talk radio he might accidentally stumble upon a report of his parents’ abduction.

Connor had been lucky to get this job. It paid quite a bit better than any other summer gig he had considered,