“Yes.” Mrs. Pearson stands still as a pointer. “Oh my God. You don’t think whoever killed Jay . . .”

“We don’t have any reason to think that,” I say. “She might’ve just needed to get away, like you said.” There’s no sense in scaring the bejesus out of Mrs. Pearson. That won’t help anyone. “Did you leave the house yesterday after your party?”

“No. We stayed right here. We cleaned up, and I gave Willow her bath.”

“What about your husband? He go anywhere last night?” I ask.

She looks out the back door, where Mr. Pearson is holding his little girl up so she can place an old baseball cap on the snowman’s head. “Just to take my parents home. My dad likes to have a few drinks, and we don’t like them driving.”

“What time was that?”

She glances at a decorative clock on the wall above the table. “I’m not sure. Five-thirty?”

“Where do they live?”

“About a fifteen-minute drive, not far.”

“He come right back?”

Mrs. Pearson hesitates, one hand gripping the back of a chair. “No. He said he might run some errands while he was out.”

“What time did he return?”

“I’m really not sure. It was a busy day. Chaotic. Lots of kids over running around. You know how that is.”

“Uh huh.”

She puts her hands on the sides of her forehead momentarily, as though she needs to organize her thoughts. “I was bathing Willow. Then I put her to bed.”

“He still wasn’t home?” Joe asks, an eyebrow raised. He walks the length of the kitchen, stops to peer out the back door.

“It wasn’t that late,” she says. “Willow was worn out. Parties are tough on her.” She clasps her hand over her mouth, mumbles, “You don’t think my husband . . .”

Joe steps aside, and Mr. Pearson and his daughter come through the back door, red-cheeked and smiling until they see us.

“Mr. Pearson,” I say, “your wife was telling us that you ran your in-laws home after the party yesterday.”

“Yeah.” He stands still while the little girl starts peeling off her coat and mittens, dropping them on the floor. “Why?”

“You come straight home?”

He glances at his wife. “No. I had some running around to do.” His gaze shifts between me and Joe, not settling on either of us.

“Where did you go?” Joe asks, folding his arms and leaning against the counter.

Pearson walks over to his wife, stands beside her. “What’s this all about?”

“Molly’s missing,” she says, her voice catching in her throat.

“What? Really?”

“So,” I say, “where did you go after your wife’s party?”

He drops down on a kitchen chair and pulls off his gloves, chucks them in the middle of the table. “I didn’t see Molly, if that’s what you want to know.” His obnoxious tone is in full force.

“So where were you?”