It was a brilliant move. Nurses at public schools aren’t bound by laws of confidentiality.

“Good thinking,” I say. “Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”

“Kaycee wasn’t lying,” he says simply.

“The girls admitted it,” I say, but even I hear it as a question.

“The other girls admitted it,” he says, in the same soft cadence, as if he knows he’s breaking news I don’t want to hear. “But she was sick. You can see it. The nurse saw it.”

Just hearing the words like that is like the hard stun of a wave you’ve been watching get closer. It takes my breath away momentarily. Right away I know that this, this photograph right here, is the whole reason I came back. It’s why I could never entirely leave it all behind.

Another Kaycee surfaces in my mind: the creamy, seamless skin, the curve of her mouth rearranging itself into a wolfish smile—or sneer. Perfect. Suddenly, I realize after all I don’t want it to be true. If it’s true, it means Kaycee is just another one I got all wrong. Not a predator—a victim.

—

Frank Mitchell gave up the trailer Kaycee grew up in and now lives only half a mile from his shop. God knows why I felt compelled to bring Portland—it’s highly doubtful that Mitchell will find the sight of a guy who looks like he could be the singer of an indie-rock band reassuring. Maybe I’m the one who needed reassuring.

The garage door of number 217 is half open. I’m betting that Frank’s one of those guys who drinks five to midnight. It’s only noon, which means he might be sober enough to be reasonable, or hungover enough to be irritable.

We find him bent over a motorcycle, his back bony beneath a stained white shirt.

“Mr. Mitchell?” When he turns around, I see he’s aged considerably. Yellow-stained wrinkles falling into his salt-and-pepper mustache. His T-shirt’s emblazoned with a hunting rifle and the slogan Guns don’t kill people, I do. “Hope we aren’t catching you at a bad time. Abby Williams. You and I spoke briefly on the phone…?”

“I remember. I remember you from back when, too.” He sizes me up, sweeps his eyes over Portland, and turns back to his motorcycle. “I thought I told you I didn’t have anything to say.”

The years haven’t softened his personality. But he hasn’t ordered us to get out yet. That’s a start.

“I’m still having trouble tracking Kaycee down,” I say. “I really think it would be helpful to speak to her.” The Internet is proving to be no help. So far, all I know is she might have settled in New York or San Francisco or anywhere in between.

“Like I said on the phone, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I haven’t talked to her since she ran off—with five hundred dollars of my money, too.” He doesn’t look up, just keeps working the rag.

“You’re a Harley man, Mr. Mitchell?” Portland asks, casually reaching for the matte black helmet that’s sitting on the workbench next to a pile of bolts.