“Sure,” Myron said. “That’s natural.”

“So she texted me to come get her.”

“And you drove her there?”

“Yeah. We went to the party. It was a little out of control, but nothing we hadn’t seen before. We drank. Maybe too much, I don’t know. Anyway, at some point, she started freaking out.”

“Freaking out how?”

“She started crying. I asked her what’s wrong. She just shook her head. I tried to comfort her. I took her outside, you know, to get a little fresh air. She just cried harder.”

“Did she say anything?”

“She just kept sobbing it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair.”

“What wasn’t fair?”

Clark shrugged. “That she got her brother back and I didn’t.”

Silence. Then: “What did you say?”

“I told her I was happy for her. I told her that Patrick coming home was good news, that we can still find my brother too. But she just kept sobbing. Then she said she needed to see her brother. She just wanted to make sure it was real or something. Like maybe she dreamt Patrick was back. I get that, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“I used to have dreams like that all the time. Rhys would be home and it was like he was never gone or whatever. So I said I would drive her, but next thing I know an Uber pulled up. She got in and said she would call me soon.”

“Has she?”

“No. But it was only a few hours ago. I’m telling you, Mr. Bolitar. She doesn’t know anything.”

* * *

There was no point in heading to the Moore house to question Francesca. Nancy or Hunter would just call a halt to it. Besides, Myron had other plans.

His dad was waiting in the yard when Myron pulled up. The two men headed out for breakfast at Eppes Essen, a “Jewish-style” (according to the brochure) deli and restaurant on the other side of town. Myron and Dad both ordered the same thing—Eppes’s famed Sloppy Joe sandwich. Many of you associate Sloppy Joes with that ground possible-meat thingie in school cafeterias. This was not that. Eppes Essen makes the authentic Sloppy Joes, momentous triple-decker sandwiches with rye bread, Russian dressing, coleslaw, and at least three meats—in this case, turkey, pastrami, corned beef.

Dad stared down at his plate and then nodded his appreciation. “If God made a sandwich.”

“That should be Eppes’s slogan,” Myron agreed.

They finished, paid the check, and drove to the high school just as the boys’ basketball team ran out for warm-ups. Mickey was in the middle of the pack. The home team was playing its archrival, Millburn High.

“Remember the game you had against them junior year?” Dad asked.

Myron smiled. “Oh yeah.” With Myron’s team up by only one point, Millburn had an easy fast-break layup to win it with two seconds remaining. The Millburn player cruised in, ready to score the game winner, when Myron, trailing the play, somehow leapt over the guy and pinned the ball onto the backboard as time ran out. The Millburn players screamed for goaltending—hard to tell if it was or wasn’t—but the ref didn’t make the call. To this day, if Myron ran across one of the Millburn guys who’d played in that game, they would still good-naturedly complain about that no-call.