Neither of her visitors had said a word before she demanded, “What the hell? He doesn’t live here. Hasn’t for years. Why the fuck do you people always come looking for him here?”

Joe glanced at the Keene detective beside him, who nodded that he was ready. Each was standing off-center of the door to 3-A, in case someone shot through it from inside. Armed backup was just out of sight down the stairwell, with support troops positioned discreetly outside. The building dated back to the 1940s. It was dark, abused, poorly ventilated, overheated, and transparently running low on longevity.

There are various approaches for a visit involving a child’s imminent welfare, each hinging on the perceived level of threat. In this instance, Joe had opted for a heavily supported “knock-and-talk” over the assault rifles and door rams right behind him.

As rationale, he was banking on a computer check that had revealed this apartment to be rented by Trevor Buttner, who had a record of assault, domestic disturbance, and several DUIs, but no weapons charges. The name Lisa Rowell wasn’t associated with any of the six apartments in the building, reinforcing their guess that it was a clumsy ruse.

Joe rapped on the door.

Not surprisingly to any of them, nothing happened. In part, that was good news. No dog.

He knocked again, louder.

They heard quiet footsteps approaching and a tentative child’s voice ask, “Who is it?”

Instinctively, Joe crouched to answer softly, his mouth near the doorknob, “It’s the police. Can you let us in?”

A metallic snap and the door swung back to reveal a skinny young girl, dressed for school, a piece of toast in her hand.

Joe bit back his true emotional response. This was the same awkward child he’d seen naked on Lisa Rowell’s phone.

Hypervigilant about what might surprise them next, he asked, “Did we interrupt breakfast? Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. What do you want?”

“My name’s Joe. We’d like to talk to a grown-up. Is there one at home?”

“Sure, but they’re asleep.”

“It is early. What’s your name?”

“Angie Neal.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Angie. Could you do me a big favor?”

“Sure.”

“Tell me who the grown-ups are.”

“There’s my mom and Trevor.” Joe noticed a slight downturn in Angie’s voice as she mentioned Buttner.

“Anybody else?”

“My sister, Pammy. She’s little. You don’t want to talk to her.”

“I think you’re right. Maybe your mom. What’s her name?”

“Melissa.”

“Melissa what?”

“Monfet.”

“How about anyone named Lisa Rowell?”

She looked at him blankly. “Who?”

“Okay. And you’re sure they’re asleep?”

“Sure.”

“Couple of more questions, and then we’re done. Where’s Pammy’s bedroom? Or does she sleep with the grown-ups?”

“She sleeps with me. At the end.” Angie gestured down the dark hallway.

“And your mom’s bedroom? Where’s that?”

She pointed again. “On the right. There.”

“One last question, Angie, and this one is a little strange: Are there any guns in the house that you know about?”