“We haven’t found him yet. We’re working on it,” I said. There was a needlepoint pillow in Flynn’s lap that he held against his stomach like a compress. It made the big man look more vulnerable. I’m sure that was his intent. “We need you downstairs. But let’s talk a minute first.”

“You saw it? The blood?” He clutched the pillow tighter. “Philip wouldn’t let me in there. What happened to my brother?”

I had trouble imagining stubby Norton taking on Flynn. If Flynn wanted to see that room, he’d have done it. “We’re still trying to figure that out,” I said. “Hopefully we’ll know more when the forens—”

Flynn flinched. It was that word; too much crime TV makes the public associate forensic science with death. “When the rest of our team gets here,” I said, backpedaling, “we may have more information about the nature of the injury and crime.”

“You’ve got to have a theory. People don’t just disappear.”

You’re wrong, I wanted to tell him. People disappear all the time. Instead, I said, “Not every day, no.”

“Did you talk to her? She’s the one you should be talking to, not me.”

“You’re referring to his girlfriend.” I took out my notebook. “That would be Abella Beaudry?”

“Obviously. Christ.”

“I do plan to speak with her. But right now, I’m with you. Do you mind if I sit down?”

A muscle rolled across Flynn’s jaw. I couldn’t tell if he was suppressing anger or pain. He jerked his chin in the direction of a chair and I took some time getting there, seizing my chance to study the room.

The curtains on the windows were open. Rain beat against the glass. This side of the house was closer to the trees, and they blocked most of the dull daylight in a way that made the room feel cold. Some coins and a set of house keys were scattered across the surface of the dresser. Flynn had emptied his pockets of the things one didn’t need on a private island. Must be nice, I thought, to have the luxury of sloughing off the burdens of the outside world. Beside the items, he’d placed his billfold-style wallet. But no, that was wrong. There wasn’t one wallet, but two.

“Mind if I take some notes?” I adjusted myself on the stiff ladder-back chair. Like the parlor, Flynn’s bedroom was sparsely decorated with antique furniture and Adirondack flare. I was pleased to find sitting across from someone with notepad and pen in hand still came easily, as if each step of the interview process was ingrained. It emboldened me; I took it as a good sign. Flynn hadn’t answered my question, but it didn’t matter. I was taking notes regardless.

“Okay, so. First question. Are you and Jasper close?”

“Of course we’re close. He’s my brother.”

“There’s a pretty big age difference between you.” I thought of Jasper’s photo as I looked at Flynn, whose skin was rough and had succumbed to decades of gravity. His heavy jowls made me think of melting wax. “Ten years?”