So now, two hours after discovering that the Moore family was on a private plane back to the United States, Brooke and Chick Baldwin held the press conference in the ballroom at the Grosvenor House on Park Lane.

Myron and Win stood in the back and watched.

“She doesn’t look like a grieving mother, does she?” Win said.

He was talking about Brooke.

“That doesn’t mean she’s not.”

“No, but I told her to cry a little for the camera.”

Myron nodded. “That would be good.”

“I don’t know if she can. I told her the public wants to see the pain. If they don’t, they assume you cannot possibly be suffering.”

“I remember when the boys first disappeared,” Myron said. “All those news sources about your cousin’s”—Myron made the quote marks in the air—“‘demeanor.’”

“Even then she didn’t show enough anguish for the cameras,” Win said.

“Right. So some columnist started to theorize that maybe she was involved. It was her house, her nanny—and worst of all, she showed little outward sign of distress.”

“Pathetic,” Win said.

“Exactly. If Brooke had sobbed and collapsed, the world would have sobbed along with her. Instead they used her.”

“I remember. It started up the whole stay-at-home-mom debate. Brooke was neglectful. She was spoiled, just another rich woman who hired an au pair because she didn’t want to take care of her own children.”

“No one wants to think it can happen to them,” Myron said.

“So they look for blame,” Win said. “It’s part of the human condition.”

Up on the podium, the police did most of the talking. Brooke stared out at seemingly nothing. She did not, despite Win’s instructions, cry. Chick, in that natty suit, hardly cut a sympathetic image either, but at least you could see the devastation on his face.

Myron leaned toward his friend. “It’s good to have you back, Win.”

“Yes,” Win said. “Yes, it is.”

The police told the story in the vaguest terms possible. One of the American boys missing for ten years, Patrick Moore, had been rescued in London. No details on how. They didn’t take credit for it. They didn’t give Myron credit either.

Which was more than fine with him.

The police believed that the other missing teen, Rhys Baldwin, the son of these two long-suffering parents, might be close by too. A reporter shouted out, “How do you know?” The police ignored him. When they flashed up an old picture of Rhys, age six, along with several age-progression illustrations, Myron saw the first crack in Brooke’s facade.

But she didn’t cry.

“They’re flying back when this is done,” Win said.

“They’re not staying?”

Win shook his head. “They want to go home. They know there is nothing they can do in London. You need to go with them. You need to figure out a way to get Patrick to talk. You need to start at the beginning and move toward me.”

“You mean the original scene of the crime?”