When Madeline disappeared, Bowman came to my house. And while her questions then had been pointed, the story and the police interest quickly faded away. With no leads and no real evidence, Madeline’s story moved to the back of everyone’s minds.

I suspect this trip to the police station will be different.

Bowman leads me to a heavy metal door plastered with enough warnings to scare anybody off. She waves an ID card over the electronic lock and leads me through, still not speaking. We pass two uniformed cops who nod to Bowman but don’t look at me. What must they think? That Bowman is bringing in yet another pedophile or drunk driver or embezzler?

We go down a short hallway and turn right, and Bowman opens the door to a small conference room. She points for me to go inside and then speaks for the first time since we were standing in the driveway. “Do you want something to drink? Coffee? A Coke?”

“I’m okay.”

She leaves, closing the door. And I’m alone in the cold, windowless room. It has a small table, and there’s a screen in the wall they can pull down for presentations. I have nothing to do, so I sit. And wait. Fifteen minutes later, Bowman comes back, offering no apology or explanation for keeping me there.

“Is something wrong, Detective?” I ask, trying but failing to keep the impatience out of my voice.

Bowman stands at the head of the table. She looks surprised to hear me speak. “You tell me. Is there?”

“I don’t know why I’m here.”

“I’m about to tell you.” She sits down and slaps a steno pad onto the table. She clicks her pen open with an exaggerated flourish and looks at me. “I just need to follow up on our conversation from this morning. You don’t mind, do you?”

“I don’t seem to have any choice.”

She affects a casual air, like we’re two friends sitting in a coffee shop. “You can go if you want. Is that what you want to do? Leave?”

“I just want to know why I’m here.”

Bowman taps the pen against the pad. She looks lost in thought, like I’m not here. Until she says, “You already kind of answered one of the questions I wanted to follow up on. When we were back at the house.”

“I did?”

“I asked you about the dog park, and you admitted you used to take Grendel there.”

“ ‘Admitted,’ ” I say. “That’s a strange word to use about my habits. I don’t think I was admitting anything. I was telling you something fairly mundane I used to do with my dog.”

The pen in her long fingers taps. Tap tap tap.

“Do I need a lawyer, Detective?” I ask.

“That’s your right. Would you like to exercise it?”