“No. He drove back to Pennsylvania tonight.”

“That’s where he lives?”

She nodded. “He’s been there since the divorce.”

Myron looked at the FOR SALE sign. “You’re moving too?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Same.”

“Pennsylvania?”

“I don’t want to be rude here, Myron.”

He held up a hand. “Can I just come in for a moment?”

She grudgingly moved out of the way. Myron stepped inside and pulled up when he saw the young woman standing by the foot of the steps.

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

Myron almost made the standard “you mean sister” line, but he bit back the flattery. He hadn’t really noticed the strong resemblance during the TV interview, but he had been otherwise distracted. If a potential spouse wanted to know what Francesca would look like in twenty-five years, Nancy left very little to the imagination.

“Francesca, this is Mr. Bolitar.”

“Call me Myron,” Myron said. “Hi, Francesca.”

She blinked away tears. Had the tears been there before?

“Thank you,” she said with sincerity that almost made him turn away. Francesca hurried over to Myron. She gave him a brief albeit fierce hug. “Thank you,” she said again.

“You’re welcome,” Myron said.

Nancy rubbed her daughter’s shoulder and gave her a gentle smile. “Do you mind going upstairs and checking on your brother? Mr. Bolitar and I need to talk.”

“Sure,” Francesca said. She took Myron’s hand in both of hers. “It was really nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Nancy watched her head up the stairs. She waited until she was out of sight before she said, “She’s a good kid.”

“She seems it.”

“Very sensitive. Cries at the smallest thing.”

“I think that’s a good quality,” Myron said.

“I guess. But when her brother disappeared . . .” Nancy didn’t finish the thought. She shook her head and closed her eyes. “If Patrick had died in that tunnel, if you hadn’t gotten to him in time . . .” Again there was no need to finish the thought.

“Can I ask you something straight out?” Myron asked.

“I guess.”

“Are you positive that the boy upstairs is Patrick?”

She made a face. “You asked me that before.”

“I know.”

“So why do you keep asking me that? I already told you. I’m certain.”

“How can you be?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s been ten years. He was a little boy when he was taken.”

She put her hands on her hips. There was a hint of impatience in her tone now. “This is why you’re here?”

“No.”

“Then you better get to it. It’s getting late.”

“Tell me about your texts with Chick Baldwin.”

Myron said it just like that. Boom. No warning, no clearing of his throat, nothing. He wanted to see her reaction, but if he expected something dramatic or revealing, that wasn’t happening. Nancy put down the wineglass and folded her arms.

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“Why on earth . . . ?” She stopped herself. “I think you should leave.”

“I spoke to Chick about it.”