I look at Janet carefully, at her rumpled faded scrubs, at her dirty nails and sleep-deprived face. Her eyes burn hard and bright, and I’m reminded of how private and stoical she can be. And strong. Janet is very strong. She’s quietly dangerous like an undertow if you plunge into an area where you don’t belong or dare to threaten anyone she loves.

She’s not telling us something.

“Yes, yes, the FBI knows what they’ve been told,” Donoghue argues. “But that doesn’t mean they accept or believe it, as we’ve been pointing out. Frankly it’s most likely that they don’t accept Carrie is responsible for anything. In other words she’s been dead for years and that’s the explanation for why she isn’t back on the Most Wanted list or possibly any lists.”

“I agree,” I reply. “That’s the explanation for why she isn’t wanted. The Bureau hasn’t listed her as a fugitive. They haven’t asked Interpol to amend her from a black to a red notice, from a dead fugitive to an active extremely dangerous one. I know. I’ve periodically been checking Interpol’s website and her status hasn’t changed. It won’t unless the FBI changes it.”

“In other words the FBI is still treating her as if she’s deceased,” Donoghue says.

“Yes,” I reply. “Adding to the theory that they’re refusing to acknowledge her existence because the consequences will be significant, perhaps ones we have no idea about.”

“And the last time you saw her was thirteen years ago when you thought you witnessed her die in a helicopter crash.” Donoghue directs this at both Lucy and me.

“It was the last time I thought I saw her.” I sip my coffee. “As it turned out I didn’t see her at all on that occasion.”

“What we literally saw was a helicopter crash into the ocean,” Lucy says more precisely.

“We? Both of you witnessed it independently?”

“Yes,” I reply. “I was in the left seat. Lucy was in the right seat flying. We were in her helicopter when we saw the other one, a white Schweizer, crash into the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of North Carolina.”

“When I caused it to go down,” Lucy qualifies. “The pilot was shooting at me. I shot back and his helicopter blew up. Aunt Kay and I thought Carrie was on it.”

“I’ll trust you that she wasn’t.” Donoghue doesn’t take her eyes off Lucy now, and I can’t tell if she believes her or any of us.

“As I’ve mentioned,” I reply, “no remains we recovered were identified as hers or possibly hers. The only body parts and other personal effects found were the pilot’s, a fugitive named Newton Joyce.”