“Did you see any blood along the way? Any indication of where he might have gone, or . . .”

“Or where he was taken,” Tim said, staring hard at Norton.

“No,” he replied. “Nothing at all.”

“Did you search as a group?” I asked.

“We split up.”

“Ah.” I didn’t like that. Assuming they weren’t all in it together, which seemed unlikely, splitting up meant someone had the chance to cover their tracks or finish what they’d started during the night without being seen.

Tim asked him to describe the search parties, and I recorded them in my notebook. Camilla Sinclair, Jade Byrd, and Abella Beaudry—the girlfriend—stayed together inside. Flynn and Barbara Sinclair, along with a man named Ned Yeboah, searched the house, while Philip Norton and Miles Byrd combed the island. I didn’t yet know who those names belonged to. They were strangers to me, strange. I made a point of memorizing the composition of those groups, though. There was a reason they broke out the way they did, and I’d have to find out what it was.

By Norton’s account, the search lasted forty-five minutes. I thought about my drive into work that morning and how grateful I’d been for my nice, warm car as I listened to the caretaker describe circumnavigating the island in fifty-mile-per-hour winds. I wasn’t surprised they didn’t find anything. Much of Tern appeared to be forest, and it was late autumn. The leaves were down. This was no immaculate lawn we were talking about, but a contained wilderness with plenty of places to hide. I’d heard some of these islands had natural caves down by the water’s edge.

If Jasper left the house during the night, whether under his own power or by force, I thought, he might still be out here. To do this right we’d need a proper search party, maybe even a dog. Norton’s efforts, while valiant, weren’t nearly enough.

The storm battered the near-empty boathouse like a drum. “I have to tell you,” I said. “We find it strange you called this in as a murder.”

Norton blinked. “How do you mean?”

“It sounds like a missing person situation. No body, and all. So why phone it in as murder?”

His mouth made a downward turn once again. “Well,” he said, “that wasn’t my idea.”

“Whose idea was it, Mr. Norton?” Tim said.

“You know, I’m not actually sure. Everybody was upset. There was a real panic going on, chaos, like, and when I went to the kitchen to make the call they were shouting it.” He swallowed, looking green. “Jasper’s been murdered, they said.”

“I see. And you don’t agree?”

“I guess there’s a chance he could have left Tern on his own.” As soon as he said it, Norton reached out and knocked on the boathouse’s wooden wall. “For luck,” he explained when I gave him a look. “God knows we could use some.”

“But the boat’s still here,” I said. “How could Jasper leave? Unless . . .” I glanced up at the mounted nameplate. “Loophole?”