“Why would you ask that?”

“I’m trying to piece together what happened.”

“After ten years?”

“Please,” Myron said. “You said you remember that day. You said you’d never forget something like that.”

“That’s right.”

“So just answer me this simple question. Were both Francesca and Clark in your classroom?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “Of course they were. Why wouldn’t they be? It was a school day. A Wednesday, as a matter of fact.” Dixon marched toward the back and stopped by a desk in the second-to-last row. “Clark Baldwin sat right here. He wore a red basketball shirt from his town rec team. I think he wore that shirt twice a week that school year. Francesca Moore”—he moved up to the front row and to the desk on the end—“she sat here. She wore a yellow blouse. That was Francesca’s favorite color. Yellow. She drew yellow daisies on every assignment.”

Dixon stopped and looked at Myron. “Why on earth would you ask that?”

“They were both here all day?”

“All day,” he repeated. “I got a call from Mrs. Baldwin at two thirty.”

“Brooke Baldwin?”

“Yes.”

“She called you herself?”

“Yes. Via the main office. She called the principal’s office and asked to speak to me. She said it was an emergency.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She said that there had been a personal incident and that a police officer was going to pick up Francesca and Clark. She asked if I could keep the children late until they got there. I said of course.”

“Did you know about the kidnappings?”

“No, not then.” He shook his head. “I still don’t get why you’re here, Mr. Bolitar.”

Myron didn’t know either. He could give him the same song and dance about the clumsy search for the needle in a haystack, but he didn’t think there was any point.

“Did the cop pull up in a squad car?”

“No,” he said. “It was a female officer. She was in plainclothes in an unmarked car. I don’t see the point of this.”

“Tell me about Clark and Francesca.”

“What about them?”

“Do you know that they are college roommates?”

Dixon smiled. “That’s nice.”

“Were they close back in fifth grade?”

“Of course. I think their shared experience bonded them.”

“How about before the kidnappings?”

He thought about it. “They were just classmates. I don’t think they hung out together or anything. I’m really glad that they had each other, though, especially for Francesca.”

Especially for Francesca.

Needle? Meet my dear friend Haystack.

“Why do you say that about Francesca?” Myron asked.

“She was going through a bit of a rough patch.”

“What sort of rough patch?”

“This really isn’t proper, Mr. Bolitar.”

“Call me Myron.”

“It still isn’t proper.”

“Rob, your information is ten years old. The fifth grade girl with the rough patch is now a college student.”

“The kids trusted me.”

“And I can see why. You’re kind. You’re caring. You want what’s best for them. I had some great elementary teachers when I was a kid. I remember them all. Middle school teachers, high school teachers—not so much. But the good elementary school teachers? They stay in your heart forever.”