The back door slams. I look up, to see a tall, dark-haired young man appear in the kitchen doorway. I know immediately he’s Justin Treece. He’s nearly six feet tall. Skinny, the way so many young males are, but he’s got some sinew in his arms and the rangy look of a street fighter—one who knows how to fight dirty. He’s wearing baggy jeans with a drooping crotch—perfect for secreting a weapon—and a dirty T-shirt. Well-worn Doc Martens cover his feet. Newish-looking tats entwine both arms from shoulder to elbow. A single gold chain hangs around his neck, and he has gold hoops in both ears. He’s looking at us as if we’ve interrupted something important and he needs to get back to it ASAP.

“What’s going on?” he asks, wiping grease from his hands onto an orange shop towel.

Trina twists her head around to look at him. “I don’t know what you did, but these cops want to talk to you.”

“I didn’t do shit.” His gaze lingers on his mother, and for an instant I see a flash of raw hatred before he directs his attention to us. “What do you guys want?”

Justin Treece is not what I expected. He’s attractive, with dark, intelligent eyes that have the same cunning light as his mother’s. Someone less schooled in all the wicked ways of the human animal might presume he’s a decent, hardworking young man. But I’ve never put much weight in appearances, especially when I know they’re false.

Goddard doesn’t waste time on preliminaries. “When’s the last time you saw Annie King?”

An emotion I can’t quite identify flickers in his eyes; then his expression goes hard. “I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

Tomasetti flips out his identification, holds it up for Justin to see. “Why is that?”

Justin gives him a dismissive once-over. “When something bad happens around here, the cops come calling. I’m their go-to man.”

“When a girl goes missing, the boyfriend is usually one of the first people the police talk to,” Goddard tells him.

“That’s your problem,” Justin says.

Tomasetti never takes his eyes from the teen. “Stop acting like a dip-shit and answer the sheriff’s question.”

“I ain’t seen her in a couple days.” He shrugs a little too casually, as if a missing girl is of no great concern, girlfriend or not. “I heard she was missing, though.”

“You don’t seem too worried,” Tomasetti says.

“I figured she left.”

“Why would you think that?”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Anyone under eighteen with a brain is thinking about leaving this fuckin’ dump. Besides, she hates those Bible-thumping freaks.”

“You mean the Amish?” I ask.