In all honesty, she almost wanted her dad to stay with her, if only to make her feel less frightened. But she also didn’t want him there to listen to any accusations or evidence that might be in that big file Detective James held.

“I’ll let you know if I need you,” she added. She tried to give her father a reassuring look, even though she was quite certain she probably looked like a pale, haggard, nervous wreck.

Mr. Darling’s small, dark eyes darted between Wendy and Detective James. “Fine,” he said tersely after a moment.

“Like I said, shouldn’t take us too long,” Detective James said. “Mr. Darling, please have a seat. Help yourself to some coffee if you’d like.”

Mr. Darling didn’t move. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, showing the detective that he had no intention of doing either.

Detective James said nothing for a moment. His scarred eyebrow flicked upward momentarily, but then he turned to Wendy and said, “This way.”

Detective James’s office was small but not cramped. There was one window through which she caught a glimpse of the river between buildings, and sun filtered in through a set of blinds. All the shelves were filled with books, papers, and files, and there were a couple of boxes on the floor next to his desk. The desk itself was tidy, with one very old computer and a name plate. Hanging on the wall behind his desk was an elaborate drawing of an old ship with full sails. Small, delicate handwriting labeled the parts of the boat on old yellowing paper.

Detective James sat down in a wooden chair with cracked black leather cushions behind his desk. “Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing.

Wendy sat down in the only other chair in the room. It was metal, cold and uncomfortable. Wendy fidgeted with her hands in her lap.

Detective James set a pad of paper and a pen on his desk, but then leaned back casually in his chair. “So,” he began, giving her that smile again. Wendy gripped the edge of her seat. “Let’s get right to it. I assume by now you know that Alex Forestay went missing last night?”

Wendy nodded. “I saw you on the news talking about it.” It was true enough.

“You saw him yesterday before he went missing, is that correct?”

“Yes, I read to the kids in the children’s clinic,” Wendy said. She wondered if he could hear the guilt hammering in her chest from across the desk.

“How often do you do that?” He began writing on his pad of paper, giving her a reprieve from his icy blue stare.

“Once a week.” Should she give longer answers? Were short ones suspicious? Or would she sound guilty if she rattled off information?

“Had you seen Alex prior to that day?”