“Nonstop. Doris got in her car, drove to the station, and screamed bloody murder until they took action. I got called back into the station around ten PM that night to give an official statement.”

“When did Greenwood get involved?”

“Monday morning. At least, that’s when he asked me back into the station.”

“Almost two days missing at that point.”

“And no one was watching Dave and Kieran. They could have done anything they wanted to Angela.”

*   *   *

“Caitlin.” Doris Chapman’s seven-thirty voice had a started-at-three boozy slur. Her T-shirt and sweat pants combo shouted abandonment, not fitness, a stark contrast from their first meeting. “You didn’t have to drive all this way.”

Caitlin took to the couch and watched the broken woman refresh her tumbler from an ornate bar cart.

“Can I get you something? I’m tired of drinking alone.”

“Whatever you’re having.”

Doris poured eight fingers of whiskey into a second glass and wobbled back to the couch. “What’s going on? Did Amireau kill Paige Lauffer?”

Caitlin took a polite sip. “I don’t know. The FBI is in charge of the Lauffer investigation.”

“Guess I’m not the only one out of the loop.” She visited her glass like she lived at the bottom.

Caitlin noticed a stack of packed moving boxes next to an empty china cabinet. “So the unofficial separation became official.”

“Bruce and I are done.” Doris looked up to the dark second-story landing. “I’ve got boxes of things, but no daughter and no husband.”

Caitlin moved closer. “I’m sorry.”

Doris put up a hand. “What do you want to know?”

“Your interactions with Detective Shepherd.” Caitlin put her phone between them, started her voice recorder. “When did you find out Angela was missing?”

“Oh.” Doris looked at her now half-empty glass. “Too late is the answer. Too late to do anything useful.”

“Doris, I can’t find Angela without your help right now.”

The lawyer whispered into her drink. “No one’s going to find Angie.”

“Give it here, Sweat Pants.” Caitlin took Doris’s glass and set it on the coffee table. “I’ve been in Indiana for eighteen days—only eighteen—and now Michelson and Amireau are in jail, probably for life, unless one of them cuts a deal to tell the police what really happened that night with Angela. Since the cops are happy getting them for drugs, you may never know what happened to your daughter unless you help me tonight.”

Doris reached for the glass Caitlin removed. “I’m so lost.”

Caitlin stopped her and brought the woman into her arms. She felt the warmth of Doris’s face against her shoulder, the tickle of tears against her neck.

“You might be lost, but you’re not alone.”

In time, she got Doris through the list of questions, then crunched through two mints that hid nothing for the drive back to Bloomington.