“Alison, would you see if the Fergusons are home?” I point to the gray house next to Mrs. Murray’s. “They have a security camera. See if they’ve got Mrs. Bradley on tape walking by.”

“Sure.” Agent Metz peels off and heads up the porch steps.

Joe and I continue up the sidewalk. Traffic is picking up, horns honking in the distance, engines rumbling as cars file past, leaving exhaust in their wake. The traffic light up ahead cycles through yellow to red to green. A moist bitter wind picks up, and I wish I’d remembered my gloves.

The gas station is busy, people streaming in and out. Dirty snow lies in piles along the edges of the parking lot. The young man at the counter is wearing a reflective vest over a lumpy hoodie and a knit cap pulled low over his ears.

I show him my badge and identify us. “When did you start your shift?” I ask.

“Five. Is there a problem?” His lips are chapped, nose runny from the cold.

“No. Just looking for a woman walking a dog.” I take out Mrs. Bradley’s picture and show it to the kid. He takes a good look.

“I don’t remember seeing her.”

“She’d have had a black dog with her.”

He shakes his head.

“Can we take a look at your video?”

“Boss is in the office.” He tips his head. We walk down a short hall past stacked cases of soda and rap on a half-open door.

Mr. Armini is a short man with dark hair sprouting from the sides of his head, nothing on top. His forehead is a mass of horizontal wrinkles. He listens and pulls up the tape.

Luckily, he’s agreeable. We’ve helped him out a time or two with unruly customers. We view the tape quickly. Nothing this morning, so we back it up to last night, and there she is, perusing the snack aisle. At six thirty-four, she’s paying for her items at the counter. She looks fine, not like anything is amiss. The dog sits placidly at her side. Then they leave and head across the parking lot toward home.

We canvass the outside of the store. There’s a bit of an alley behind it, but we don’t find anything but some debris, Styrofoam cups, and a few plastic bags blown against the back wall of the gas station.

I stomp around, trying to collect my thoughts, shiver in the cold. I reach into my satchel, pull out my phone, and call Mrs. Bradley again—and bingo!

We hear it. Joe and I march steadily toward the sound, pull up at a dumpster.

“Shit.”

I call the station and request a forensics team.

* * *

After two hours of searching, Mrs. Bradley’s phone and wallet are found, but no trace of the woman herself. So Joe and I head back to the station to regroup while the team completes their work.