“Yup.” Mitchell spits. “You know anything about bikes?” He asks as if he highly doubts it.

Even I’m surprised when Portland shrugs. “A little. My dad taught me to ride when I was a kid. I used to have a 2009 custom Ultra Classic. Sold it to help pay for law school.”

Frank Mitchell actually does a decent impression of a normal human being. “An Ultra Classic, huh?” He looks at me. “Those are built for long rides—nine, ten hours at a stretch. Bet he thought he was gonna go cross-country.”

To my utter shock, Portland nods and looks at the floor, sheepish. Frank Miller laughs. “I’m working on a Fat Boy out back. I’ll show it to you, if you want.”

I make a mental note to kiss Portland as soon as possible.

“Can I use your bathroom?” I blurt out, with fake desperation. “Sorry. I had two coffees this morning…”

Mitchell’s eyes barely flick in my direction. “Through the kitchen in back.”

The back porch is cluttered with old machine parts. The downstairs is blocky and functional and contains a bedroom pungent with the smell of old sweat and alcohol; the kitchen, buzzy with flies; and a grimy bathroom where the toilet seat wears a pink furry cover that matches the rug beneath it. I wonder briefly who picked it out, and when. Mr. Mitchell’s voice comes through a partially open window—soft but crisp, like I’m listening to a ham radio. Portland’s still got him talking.

The last room’s a sort of office, or maybe junk room is a better description. In addition to a desk and a relatively new desktop computer, the room is cluttered with random furniture, a tangle of holiday lights, old electronics, a toaster still in its box, stacks of old hunting magazines. But there’s no trace of Kaycee here.

I rifle through a massive stack of old mail Frank Mitchell has cordoned off in a massive wicker basket, thinking that she might be the letter-writing type. I slip my fingers into the accordion of gutted envelopes: promotional offers from fishing magazines, inserts, slick torn-away pages with glossy photos of lures and other tackle, bills, faded bank statements, and what looks like a greeting card from a relative—the last name “Mitchell” is scrawled above the eviscerated return address. Inside, a cold greeting: BEST WISHES ON YOUR SPECIAL DAY. No signature. Why did he keep all this stuff? Years-old ads, outstanding bills, promotional coupons long expired.

Maybe after losing his daughter, he can’t bear to let anything go.

Maybe that’s why he hates Kaycee. She wouldn’t let him hold on to her.

I land on a smooth envelope, unopened. The return address is for a local storage company, U-Pack. With one finger, I slice the envelope open and pull out a single piece of paper, folded in thirds. There’s a comfort in crossing this line. Outside, something metal hits concrete—maybe on purpose, I think, a warning from Portland.

Footsteps creak across the porch. The screen door opens. My hands begin to sweat. I quickly find the date, and my chest tightens: the account’s been active for exactly ten years.