“The rec center,” Ellie said. “The backyard of Janice Beale’s house essentially ran directly into Edgemoor Park, which has a big rec center on the opposite side of the park. She used to bring juice and snacks out to the kids if they were playing ball on that edge of the field. If they needed to go to the bathroom, they’d run into her house instead of schlepping all the way back to the building. The police ran a kids’ sports program out of the park, so the cops took her death especially hard.”

“So did your father actually know her?”

She shook her head. “No. He and his partner both used to volunteer there, but by the time Janice Beale moved to the neighborhood, Dad was so obsessed with the investigation that he barely had the energy to pay attention to Jess and me, let alone a bunch of other kids.” Ellie had a vague memory of talking to her father about the camp a few weeks before he died. A girl at school was gossiping on the playground that her older sister got a “pervert” vibe from one of the volunteers, and Ellie had passed the story on to her father. In retrospect, she realized it was simply a rumor, but having something potentially police-related to report to her distracted father had been Ellie’s way of trying to get his attention. She shook away the memory. “Anyway, Janice Beale was like a de facto den mother to all the camp kids, which means she had rug rats running in and out of that house on a regular basis.”

“So if a kid cut his leg or something . . .”

He let her finish the thought. “Her house would have been the natural place to run to. And the kid with the skinned knee might be a carpenter in East Hampton now and cut himself again in someone else’s house.”

“Or he could be a bad guy who had some kind of altercation with that missing woman—”

“Hope Miller,” she reminded him.

“Right.”

“But either way, it doesn’t have anything to do with William Summer,” she concluded. Or my father.

She started to reach for her cell phone to call Lindsay Kelly, but decided it could wait until morning. Maybe by then, Lindsay Kelly would have moved on to another theory about her missing friend. Better yet, maybe Hope Miller would already be home, safe and with a simple explanation.

18
Monday, June 21, 8:20 p.m.

Carter was swiping much more left than right on Tinder, the Mets game playing out on his muted television, when his cell rang. He didn’t recognize the number.

“Decker.”

“Carter, it’s Harvey from Truth Training.” The Irish lilt on the other end of the line belonged to Harvey O’Brien.

“Hey man. I’m overdue for a session, I know.”