“Lots of January birthdays in your little group,” I say.

“Just the two.”

“Was Mrs. Bradley at the party?”

“Yes. She was there.”

“What time did you leave?”

He lets go a deep breath. “I don’t know. Five maybe? A little after? Why? What’s this all about?”

“You go straight home after you left the Pearsons’ house?” Joe asks, his low-timbred voice stern.

“Yes.”

“Then what did you do?”

He shrugs. “Watched TV. ESPN. Had a beer and a snack. Went to bed around eleven.” He tosses his glasses on the coffee table. “Why?”

“Mrs. Bradley is missing,” I say, watching his expression closely.

His gaze settles on the floor between his feet. “Seriously? Like no one knows where she is?”

“That appears to be the case. You wouldn’t have any ideas, would you?”

“No. Did you check with her sister? She’s probably with her.”

“Been there. Done that, Mr. Ferris.” I sketch his glasses in my notebook. “Can anybody verify you were home all night?”

He spreads out his hands as though he’s showing us they’re empty, nothing here. “No. I was home watching TV.”

“No phone calls?”

He shakes his head.

“Didn’t call your wife to say good night?”

His jaw tightens. “No.”

* * *

The Pearsons’ place is next on our list, and Joe and I drive the ten minutes in silence, both of us locked in on the task at hand.

Mrs. Pearson answers the door, a smile on her pixie face. “Yes?” Her mouth turns down quickly when she realizes who’s standing on her porch. “Has something happened?”

“You might say that,” I reply. Joe gives me a sideways glance. “May we come in?”

We stand in the kitchen, where kids’ toys are scattered around the floor. Straggly dolls rest in a heap by the back door. Some colorful plastic items of unknown purpose are under the table. There’s half a cake sitting on the counter, with pink frosting smeared on the white cabinet below. Outside the French doors, Mr. Pearson and a little girl are building a snowman.

“Mrs. Pearson, when was the last time you saw or spoke to Mrs. Bradley?” Joe asks.

Her delicate hand reaches for her throat. “What happened?”

“We don’t know,” Joe says. “No one has seen her or spoken to her since yesterday evening.”

“Maybe she went out of town again, but she didn’t say anything to me.” Mrs. Pearson’s eyes glisten with tears. “Corrine doesn’t know where she is?”

I shake my head.

“Do you think something . . . happened to her?”

“We don’t know,” Joe reiterates. “What was the last contact you had with her?”

Mrs. Pearson paces by the counter. “She was here yesterday at my party. She was fine.”

“What time did she leave?”

“I’m not sure. She had to walk her dog. She needed to get home.”

“That was the last you heard from her?”