Mrs. McIntyre left the room and hurried to the office. In all her ten years as a disaster counselor, this was the call she’d dreaded most: one of her charges lost, one of them gone AWOL—or worse—under her watch. It was Mrs. McIntyre’s job after all to prevent such a thing. She’d been so focused on the Bulgarian, who was alone and hadn’t uttered a word for days, that she’d lost sight of Mrs. Liang, who at least had her husband with her.

Heretofore she’d been so careful. She’d attended workshops, seminars, lectures on bereavement and grief management and post-traumatic stress disorder. She’d helped on nearly a dozen other disasters. The suitcase in her rented car had six pantsuits, all slate gray (somber, modest, though not funereal); four pairs of shoes (hiking boots if needed, sneakers, and two pairs of sensible pumps); two silk scarves (for her neck); extra boxes of tissues, aspirin, eyeglasses, underwear and socks and a case of bottled water (specifically for the families). Yet despite the hours on the ground, her professionalism, she’d failed. Perhaps she should have called for more psychiatric help on the island; perhaps the translator should have stayed longer.

She dialed her supervisor’s number. He’d contact the RCMP, the airline, whatever other officials needed calling. She’d waste no time now. They needed to find Mrs. Liang.

Within thirty minutes the news spread to the remaining guests, and all of them joined the search. Pars Mansoor hiked the south end of the beach, Ana Gathreaux took the north. Kevin rechecked all the rooms and the cellar, and drove with Claartija deJong along the Peninsular Road; perhaps she’d wandered out to the highway. Meanwhile, a squad car arrived with the RCMP investigator and the island constable, Bunty Phillips. The investigator debriefed Mrs. McIntyre first, then Mr. Liang and all the other guests. They were sending a helicopter; they were sending ground searchers. A Taiwanese social worker was flying in from Toronto.

Before he left, the investigator took Mrs. McIntyre aside in the hallway and removed his hat.

This isn’t your fault, you know, he said.

She appreciated the words; he had to say them. He was toying uncomfortably with the brim of his hat. Yet nothing he said could help.

Two hours later, Pars returned from the beach with Ana. They were red-faced, windswept. Ana was limping; she’d stepped on a piece of driftwood, and a splinter had lodged in her foot. The tide was up, Ana explained, which might’ve covered any footprints from earlier that day. They’d seen nothing. They’d done their best. The police were taking over the search. All they could do now was wait.