Of course, the fact that our Lightfoot hadn’t showed up didn’t necessarily mean anything. I wondered if the University of Virginia, my alma mater, had an online searchable directory—one accessible to anyone who went to the alumni Web site. If they did, they certainly wouldn’t have a recent picture of me. Maybe Lightfoot just hadn’t signed up for the directory. It seemed largely calculated to let students and alumni look for jobs and network with people who might be interested in musical collaborations and jamming. Lightfoot had a job, and I didn’t see him as the collaborating type.

Up until a few weeks ago I wouldn’t have had the slightest idea how to extract any more information from Riddick’s computer, but it had occurred to me that given how precocious Josh and Jamie were, all too soon they would start playing with our computers and getting into who knows what sort of trouble. One of the perks of Rob owning a computer game company was access to expert tech support whenever we needed it. Rob had been happy to send over someone from his help desk to set up parental controls on all our computers and to teach me a few basics on how to check up after the boys—knowledge I hoped I wouldn’t have to use for a few more years.

As a result, I knew how to find the list of other pages this browser had recently visited. It was a moderately interesting list. Someone had searched for Lightfoot’s name, alone and in combination with the music school and with the name of a Baptist church in Detroit.

Someone was suddenly very interested in Mr. Lightfoot.

Of course, this fact would be a lot more useful if I knew who was doing the snooping. It could have been Riddick, before he left. Or any of the dozens of other people who had been coming and going from the church all day, including whoever had fled when I’d knocked over my chair.

I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the history, and then another of the page showing the wrong Lightfoot. Then I turned off the computer and shut and locked Riddick’s door.

I collected my purse and tote and locked up my office, too.

In the vestibule, I opened the door to peek into the sanctuary. Several dozen people were listening to the rehearsal. Including Mr. Vess, who did not appear to be enjoying himself. He was standing in the back, glaring at Lightfoot.

I closed the door and was about to leave when I heard a loud thud followed by some clanking noises to the left side of the vestibule, where another corridor led to the classrooms and the parish hall.