“I’m a social butterfly,” he teased. “Seriously, they’re good. Their bread and butter is insurance scams, but their heart is in missing persons. I upgraded their computer security last year, as a favor for RCK. We’ve passed them some work over the years, helped a time or two on missing persons cases that turned into hostage situations south of the border.”

“I’ll drop your name.”

“Do that, they love me.”

Lucy laughed, and Sean smiled. She was so focused on her work that sometimes she forgot to breathe. “Call me if you need anything, I gotta go,” Sean said. “Be safe.”

“You too.”

Sean was fifty-fifty that Marie would be at home this morning but was pleased when he saw her older Explorer parked at the end of her long, narrow driveway. He had to play this situation carefully. He didn’t want to spook her, but he needed to make her understand that this photo—if she recognized the house—was at a minimum odd and suspicious but most likely a threat.

He’d circled the block twice, didn’t see anything out of place—no one acting suspicious or sitting in a car watching him or the house. As he walked up to her door, he looked behind him and to the sides. Clear.

He knocked. It was seven thirty—if she was going to school, she would have left already.

He heard footsteps in the house, then nothing, then more footsteps. Marie said through the closed door, “Who is it?”

“Sean Rogan, private investigator. I’m here about your brother.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. Off my porch or I’ll call the police!”

“Ms. Richards, I work with Maxine Revere from Maximum Exposure. She’s here in San Antonio at the request of your brother.” Slight fib. “He plans on talking to her this morning but asked Max to check on you and your boys. He’s concerned about your safety.”

Silence. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“I can slip my card through the mail slot. You can verify my identity and my credentials.”

“Show me the card.”

He pulled out his sleek RCK business card. Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid Protective Services had printed expensive and ultra-professional business cards, simple and effective, on quality glossy card stock. Not a guarantee that anyone would take him seriously, but combined with his official ID—not a badge, but official enough for most people—it usually worked.

He slid the card through the mail slot, then held his ID up to the peephole.

“Wait there,” Marie said.

She walked away from the door. He didn’t know what she was doing, but a full two minutes later she returned. “You could be lying,” she said, still not opening the door. “This could be a scam and you have a friend telling me that you’re legit.”

“You called the number.”

“They verified your description.”