“No. Nothing yet. But we’re pulling out all the stops,” I say with as much hopefulness as I can muster. Her parents, neatly dressed and befuddled, stand silently in the kitchen, looking to us, eyes begging for answers. Dr. Westmore leans against the counter, a cup of untouched coffee in her hand. My eyes meet hers.

“Scott’s on his way,” she says, then clears her throat.

“Okay, everyone, please sit.” Joe and I catch them up on all we know.

Mrs. Alworth chokes out a sob. “Someone’s got her?”

“We believe so.”

She slams the table with her fist. “How could this have happened? You knew she was being harassed!”

“I’m sorry.” I feel about two feet tall. “We’re doing everything we can to find her.”

“That’s what you said about Jay’s killer, what, three weeks ago!” Tears of rage and fear tremble on her cheeks.

My stomach burns. She’s right. This investigation has moved entirely too slowly for my liking, and perhaps we should’ve done more to protect Mrs. Bradley. I just don’t know what. There didn’t seem to be any reason for the killer to have his sights on her. If that is indeed who has her.

Joe clears his throat. “We’ve got all of the resources of the Graybridge Police Department and the FBI looking for her.”

Cold comfort, I know, when it’s your loved one, but it’s the best we’ve got.

Mrs. Bradley’s parents wander into the dim living room as if they don’t want to be near us, while Mrs. Alworth paces the kitchen. Dr. Westmore murmurs words of comfort.

The doorbell rings, and Hayes and Alice Branch follow Mrs. Alworth into the kitchen.

“I called him,” Mrs. Alworth says. “He wanted to be here.”

Mr. Branch has cleaned up a little bit from earlier. He’s wearing fresh clothes, but his hair is still wild. Alice’s hair is in two braids, making her look even younger than she is. When she hears that the dog is next door, she and her father walk over to Mrs. Murray’s to claim her.

When they get back, Joe and I question Mr. Branch again. Although he doesn’t have an alibi for last night, he seems distraught and sincere in his answers and desire to help. My gut tells me we can eliminate him.

Scott Westmore strides into the kitchen, his hands covered in dirt. “Sorry,” he says. “I was on a job site. Any news?” His wife walks to his side and fills him in.

“We need to ask you a few questions,” I say. “Let’s step into the other room. I flip on the dining room light, and Mr. Westmore drops into a chair, perching on the edge as if afraid his dirty clothes will soil the seat. He leans over his clasped hands, his gray bangs shielding his eyes.