I look around. I feel like there’s something here I’m not seeing. But staring at it won’t make it obvious. Like Vasquez’s algorithm, I need more data, so I know what to exclude.

‘Let’s check out his parents’ house,’ I say.

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 21

What gets wetter the more it dries?

‘He’s a good boy,’ Joseph Luxford insists.

Joseph looks a lot like his son. Square jaw, cobalt eyes. His hair has remained black, but it’s thinning at the front. His nose has gone blotchy in a way that might suggest alcoholism.

‘What were his grades like at school?’ Thistle asks.

She already knows that they were good. Shannon got As in math, science, gym and shop, Bs in everything else. Thistle is trying to get Joseph off defence, talking about something he’s comfortable with. Hoping to get a clue about whether or not Shannon is hiding here.

But Joseph glances at his wife. He doesn’t know the answer.

‘His grades were good,’ Francine Luxford says quietly. She’s younger than her husband, with a neat bun of hair that would probably be grey if not for an expensive blonde dye job. She sits down carefully, as though she once had an abdominal injury and learned how to move without aggravating it.

‘Right,’ Joseph says, turning back to us. ‘They were good. This girl you’re talking about—she might have changed her mind afterwards. That doesn’t give her the right to tarnish my son’s reputation.’

‘Girls,’ I say. My turn to play bad cop. ‘There were several.’

But Joseph just tilts his head, too dismissive even to shrug. ‘He’s a good-looking boy.’

An old dog trots over and sniffs my shoes. It can probably smell my neighbour’s dog—or meat.

‘Max, back,’ Joseph says.

The dog slinks away and sits next to the La-Z-Boy, looking guilty.

The living room has a big TV and several framed photographs of Joseph and Shannon. None of Frances, who I guess was usually holding the camera. A potted plant is withering in the corner. No books. An old reverse-cycle air-conditioner dominates one wall.

The kitchen and dining area are immaculate. I’m looking for dirty dishes, or other signs that Shannon is secretly living here. But I haven’t found anything so far.

‘Anyway, they might be making the whole thing up for the attention,’ Joseph says. He talks mostly to me, even though Thistle is the one in charge. ‘Don’t pretend that doesn’t happen.’

‘When was the last time you saw your son?’ I ask.

‘On Sunday, at church,’ Joseph says, holding my gaze.

‘How about you, Mrs Luxford?’ Thistle asks.

Frances looks at her husband, and then says, ‘Monday. He dropped off some laundry here.’

‘Was there anything unusual among the clothing?’ I ask.

‘Like what?’ Joseph asks.

‘Condoms. Blood. Drugs.’

Thistle winces.

‘Of course not,’ Joseph says. He doesn’t bother to check with his wife.