I knew enough about private investigators from my research and countless calls and interviews after Vera disappeared to know that most couldn’t help me. Without a single viable lead, their hands were tied. They could interview all the same friends, question all the same people, follow all the same leads as the police, and land back at the starting line. One PI called our case “an untouchable”—the cases of runaway teens who didn’t want to be found. With virtually no traceability—no electronic bank transactions, cash only, house-hopping, no phone—they were the ones no PI wanted to touch. Except Dickhead Daniel, after a grueling two-hour lunch entertaining him with surf-and-turf and the most expensive wine we had in the cellar, was certain that Private Investigator Ari Wilburn could help us. How could someone in Durham, North Carolina—a solid eight-hour drive—help me from two states away?

“That’s tech for ya,” Daniel slurred as we shoved him out onto the porch. “Hey, stay in touch, man! And you”—he pointed a wobbly finger at me—“stay gorgeous.”

I offered him a polite smile, urged him to call an Uber, then slammed the door shut.

I was glad to be proven wrong.

Ari, as she told me to call her, didn’t need to meet in person. Apparently she was a seasoned pro at locating missing people with a blank canvas past. One was her best friend’s little girl who was stolen by a child trafficking ring. If this woman could face hardened criminals and find a child with no past, I was willing to put my trust in her to find out who a license plate from over a decade ago was registered to.

I had given her the only details I had—a license plate number and state. I couldn’t recall the make or model of car. Then she told me she’d call me back when she had something. When the phone rang barely an hour later showing her number on my screen, my heart raced. From the kitchen where I diced vegetables for dinner, I called out to Oliver over the sound of the kids playing the board game Guess Who? in the living room.

“Does your person have green eyes, Idiot?” Sydney yelled.

“Nope!” Eliot yelled back.

They tended to shout everything these days, one always talking louder over the other, when all I wanted was silence.

I answered the phone on my way up the stairs toward the den, where I hid and hoped the kids wouldn’t find me, as they did any time I dared answer my phone. They had a special radar for when a call was extra important, and thus their own petty squabbles became extra urgent. Like Sydney sticking her tongue out at Eliot. Or Eliot taking her game piece. Well, this time they’d have to settle their differences themselves.

“Hi, Ari. I hope you have good news for me,” I answered.