“May as well start right now,” Tuck said. He pulled the snapshot of Cole out of his wallet, and handed it to our pretty waitress, who looked at him curiously. Her bangs were so long they kind of fell into her mouth, and she kept brushing them away with her little hand.

“Do you recognize him?” Tuck asked her.

She shook her head, looking regretful.

“Wish I did,” she said. I got the sense it was Tuck she wished she knew. She smiled at him and kept on tucking her hair behind her ears in a charming way. I felt awkward, as if I were interrupting something.

“Why do you ask?” the waitress asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

Tuck shook his head. “We’re trying to track him down,” he said.

“Good luck,” she said and refilled our coffee.

Wherever we went, women were anxious to help us out. Maybe they liked the mystery, or maybe—probably—they just liked Tuck. They wanted to help, but no one recognized Cole at the beauty salon, the office supply store, the wine and spirits shop, the clothing boutiques, the sandwich place, the toy store, the consignment shop, the shoe store, the pizza parlor, the flower shop, the movie theater, the Thai restaurant, or the library.

We went to the police station.

“Is it an emergency?” the receptionist behind the counter said.

“Not exactly.”

“We’ve got a retirement thing going on,” she said, pointing through a door where we could see several men and women wearing pointed paper hats. “But if it’s an emergency, I can get the guys.”

“We just want to know if anyone recognizes this man. We emailed a picture a few weeks ago, but we thought we’d try in person.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the woman said, and took the picture and Tuck’s cell phone number.

It was after one, and we were tired and hungry and discouraged. And there was still the drive home to think about, and what I had to face at the end of that drive. Life in the big, rotting house. Life with Cole.

“This is hopeless,” I said. “You were so certain, I started believing if I could just get here, it would somehow be easy.”

We sat on a bench outside the coffee shop. There were window boxes full of dead mums, their spidery flowers brittle and brown.

“Worst-case scenario?” Tuck said. “We don’t find anything out. You go home and gather more intel.”

“I can’t go home.” I slumped down on the bench. “I can’t keep being around him.”

Tuck stretched his legs out on the sidewalk in front of us. “He doesn’t seem that scary to me. I feel like he has some sort of power over you, but to the rest of the world—”

“It’s a nightmare,” I said. “I didn’t tell you everything. I didn’t—”