“Get Marie.” As I said it, I knew I was going to be sick. I stumbled over to the side of the road and threw up in the decorative shrubbery the swim club had planted at the entrance. I could hear Sage talking to Thomas, who was saying it was his fault if anything happened to Ellen; he was supposed to be the one in charge. Their voices seemed both amplified and very far away. In the distance, neighbors and strangers called Ellen’s name, and I heard sirens. People were talking all around us, murmuring and whispering, and one woman explained to another, “It’s those kids from the other side of the mountain—you know, the Irish ones with no father.”

Two police cars arrived, and the crowd parted a bit. The megaphone man seemed to be giving an overview of what was happening. “The sister’s over here,” someone said. A policeman came over to me, but my body had started to shake so hard I couldn’t talk.

“Does anyone have a blanket?” he asked. “I’m Officer Day. We’re going to find your sister. We need you to be calm, and we need you to cooperate. Can you try to breathe a little slower?”

I breathed in deep through my nose and tried to let it out slow.

“Good,” he said. “Nice and slow. Just a few more of those.” I breathed, and he put his hand at my back and guided me over to Thomas and Sage. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to find her. First I need a description of your sister and a description of the man you think has taken her.”

Someone had brought a picnic blanket and put it around my shoulders.

“Our sister’s Ellen Gallagher. She’s twelve years old,” said Thomas.

“But very small for her age,” I added. “Not even seventy pounds. She only comes up to here”—I showed them halfway between my elbow and shoulder—“just a few inches past four feet.”

“Okay. And the man you think may have hurt her?”

“Tall. Very, very tall. He has long blond, almost silver-white hair. All the way down to below his belt. And long fingernails on his right hand.”

“Age?”

“Thirty, maybe?” Officer Day was writing it all down in a notebook. “I know more,” I said. “He drives a black Camaro. He lives in Pottstown, and his license plate number is 3F5-727, State of Pennsylvania.”

Thomas was staring at me like I was a freak. “How do you know all this?”

Officer Day turned to one of the others: “Can you run that?” From inside the car I could hear the feed of information: “Suspect . . . black Camaro . . . the plate . . .” The crackling of the transceiver. Officer Day turned back to me. “Do you know this man?”