‘We’re sorry,’ Thistle says. ‘We have to ask these questions in a missing persons case—we want to find your son before any more harm comes to him or his reputation.’

Joseph looks at her, reassessing. Like a GPS working out the new best route after a missed exit.

‘What kind of harm?’ he asks.

‘We do everything we can to keep these cases quiet,’ Thistle says. ‘But the longer the investigation goes on, the more time the witnesses have to talk, potentially to the media. The sooner we can get Shannon’s side of the story, the sooner we can shut this whole thing down. The last thing we want is for Shannon to become a target, or to hurt himself.’

Joseph nods slowly.

‘Can we see his bedroom?’ Thistle asks. ‘Sometimes it helps to get a sense of the missing person.’

Francine sends an anxious glance in Joseph’s direction.

‘I guess that would be okay,’ he says. ‘Follow me.’

He leads Thistle and me up the stairs. The dog follows like a junior agent. Francine stays in the living room.

The top floor of the house is dark and claustrophobic. A narrow, low-ceilinged corridor leads to three bedrooms and one bathroom.

‘Does Shannon have siblings?’ I ask.

‘No,’ Joseph says. ‘I wanted him to have plenty of individual attention.’

‘And IVF can be expensive,’ I say.

He and Thistle both look at me, shocked.

‘Indeed,’ Joseph says finally, reluctant to admit that he can’t work out how I know. ‘But we could afford it.’

‘You didn’t think about adopting?’ Thistle asks. There’s a dark edge to her voice. I wonder if she, like me, is thinking of the group home. Getting all dressed up, being polite to strange adults, heartbroken when they didn’t want us.

‘It seemed risky,’ Joseph says, opening the door to one of the bedrooms. ‘You never know what you’re going to get, raising someone else’s kid.’

The words would once have stung. We were all so desperate for someone to adopt us, especially someone rich enough to get us out of the dirt. When we were kids, IVF was already available to the wealthy. Why take someone else’s rejects, when you could buy a kid that was genetically your own?

It’s hard to be angry now, though. Joseph is right; you never know what you’re going to get. Adopt the wrong kid, and you might find yourself raising a cannibal. Not that Joseph’s own flesh and blood turned out much better.

The bedroom is large, with a good view of the neatly trimmed grass in the backyard. The shelves are lined with trophies, and the walls hold several framed posters of football stars from ten years ago. Again, no books. The bed is a queen-size. I wonder if Shannon brought girls home here when he was in high school.

Thistle examines one of the posters. ‘Who’s this?’ she asks.