“You wouldn’t remember me,” he started. “I grew up here, went to Bloomington South, came back after the police academy. Even knew Troy Woods—well, his family. Older sister dated my brother in high school.”

Caitlin reached for her beer but barely processed the taste. Jerry Greenwood commanded her full attention.

“I was a twenty-three-year-old patrol officer when Woods attacked you. My girlfriend at the time was Melissa Hartman. Later became my wife.”

Caitlin didn’t remember Melissa, but the last name got her on her feet. “Your father-in-law is Connor Hartman?”

Greenwood rose to meet her, a hand out. “I married Melissa. Chief Hartman came with her. Not something I’m particularly proud of.”

“So when I called—”

“You made a big impression at your graduation.”

“When I said I was here to ‘finish that story,’ ” she said, nodding. Connor Hartman, a real son-of-a-bitch, had controlled the Bloomington Police Department in the spring of her senior year, and here was his son-in-law, worried about the implications of three simple words. Apparently two decades changed nothing. A voice inside said, Run.

Caitlin made a beeline for the door, heard Greenwood behind her.

“What about your lunch?”

“Get it to go—shove it up your ass.”

He followed her outside. “Miss Bergman, wait. You stay; I’ll pay for lunch and leave—least I can do.”

She spun in the middle of the parking lot. “Your department did the least they could do twenty years ago.”

Greenwood’s confusion looked genuine. “Hey, you called me. I thought you wanted to talk about this.”

Caitlin took two steps backward, bumped into her rental, her inside voice telling her to run once again, in primal, survivalist pleading, not caring that rational-adult-boss-bitch-reporter Caitlin Bergman had interviewed sleazy politicians and cartel hit men, even faced down men with guns, all without breaking a sweat.

“Wow.” She slapped her hand on the hood, took a breath, centered herself like a professional. “Connor Hartman’s son-in-law was the last person I expected to meet today.”

“By marriage only, Miss Bergman. Like I said, I fell in love with the daughter, not the man. When you called, I assumed—”

A pizza delivery car paused in the lane between them. Greenwood stepped back onto the sidewalk, let the driver pass. “Wait, did you call about Angela Chapman?”

Caitlin crossed her arms. “What if I did? Would you have called me back?”

Greenwood walked through the lane, stopped at the passenger side of Caitlin’s car. “You kidding? An award-winning journalist wants to look into a two-year-old disappearance that’s stumped my entire department, the state police, and the FBI? Why would that bother me?”

“I can’t tell if this is sarcasm, Detective, but I’ve known some police officers who keep their investigations private.”

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t normally do just that, but that girl’s family could use help from someone like you.”