When Anderson raised that “horrible day,” Nancy said, “It was a long time ago. You need to remember he was only six years old.”

“How much does he remember?”

“Very little. Patrick was moved around a lot over the years.”

“What do you mean, ‘moved around’?”

Tears flooded her eyes. Myron waited for Hunter to take her hand. He didn’t. “Our son nearly died from a stabbing.”

“That was during his rescue in London, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How long had he been in London?”

“We don’t know. But he went through”—Myron mouthed the words with her this time—“a terrible ordeal.”

Myron watched Nancy and Hunter on the screen, looking for any clues or body language that might suggest . . . What exactly? Deception? Did he think that they might be lying here? Why? What would they be hiding, if anything? He also sneaked glances at Chick, as though that might tell him something too. How was Chick reacting to Nancy? Did Myron sense a wisp of—again, what?—longing, regret, guilt?

Conclusion: Studying body language was tremendously overrated.

Myron had so often heard of people wrongly convicted (or wrongly exonerated) because jurors felt that they could “read” the perpetrators, that they didn’t show enough (or showed too much) remorse, that their reactions were not in what the jurors considered the range of normal. As though humans came in one size and shape. As though we all react the same way to a horrible or stressful situation.

We all think we can spot the tell in everyone else, but ironically, no one can spot it in us.

Finally, Anderson got to it: “What about the other boy who was taken that day?”

Chick sat up.

“What has your son been able to tell you about Rhys Baldwin, who is still missing?”

“Finding Rhys is our number one priority right now,” Nancy said.

Chick muttered something under his breath.

“This will never be over,” she continued, “until we know the truth about Rhys.”

Hunter nodded his vigorous agreement. “We are cooperating as much as possible with law enforcement . . .”

Chick sat back. “Do you believe this crap?”

“. . . but unfortunately there is little that Patrick knows that can help.”

“They’re cooperating? That’s what they’re claiming?” Chick was nearly apoplectic. “I should hold my own press conference.”

Like that would do any good.

Toward the end of the segment, Nancy and Hunter rose from their seats and turned to the right. Chick quieted down as the camera pulled out. A woman of about twenty years old appeared.

“This is our daughter, Francesca,” Nancy said.

Francesca gave the viewers an awkward nod. Then she looked off camera and mouthed the words “It’s okay.” Three seconds passed.

When Patrick stepped into view, he was holding his sister’s hand.

“And our son, Patrick,” Nancy said.

It was the same boy Myron had rescued, the same boy he had seen huddled in the corner of his bedroom. He wore a Yankees baseball cap, a blue hoodie, jeans. The camera zoomed in tight on his face. He kept his eyes down. Nancy and Hunter moved to either side of their children. For a moment it looked as though they were posing, albeit clumsily, for a holiday photo. Hunter and Nancy tried to look strong and defiant. Francesca looked overcome with emotion, her eyes brimming with tears. Patrick kept his eyes down toward the ground.