The next day we sat on the stiff white chairs of a studio behind a white table covered in a gray linen cloth. We wore clothes that were formal but not excessively so. On Elsa’s lap Franklin gurgled happily, gnawing at her thumb. We would answer the same three questions for the BBC, NRK, WSJ, NBC, FOX, CNN, TVZ, and a Christian rock station from Richmond, Virginia. Four minutes each, plus three minutes for turnaround. Elsa had balked at Christian rock, but Dan had insisted it was a key demographic. And so we answered eight sets of identical questions, exactly as he had briefed us:

—Tell us about the moment you first realized Licia was missing, Elsa.

—Well, as a mother my first thought was . . .

—Cal, what kind of person is your daughter, Alicia Curtis?

—Licia is the kindest, funniest, and sweetest child a father could wish for . . .

—Viktoria, do you have a message for your sister?

Vee paused when the Christian rock journalist asked her that final question. She sent me a look that said, Do I really have to?

“Go on, Vee,” I said.

Vee looked at Elsa. She looked at me. She looked at the camera. “I know I’m not the best sister you could have, Licia. I know I should be more like you. I know I could be kinder, and sweeter, and funnier, and when you come back I promise that I will be all of those things. But this is all just so . . .” She looked at the camera, at the lights, at the vase on the table with its single white lily.

The journalist smiled encouragingly from beneath a black beanie hat. She was dressed in a black singlet and a long black jersey skirt. Nothing about her said Christian rock, except for the steel crucifix that hung on a looped leather thong from her left wrist.

Vee’s gaze shifted from the journalist to the camera. “We’re no good at this, Licia. I mean, look at us. You can see we’re close to falling apart.” Angry tears were forming at the corners of her eyes. She smudged them away with the flat of her hand.

I looked at Dan, who was standing close by. Surely he would step forward, crouch down, and whisper to the journalist, suggest a break and a sip of water and a second take? But Dan simply nodded at me, then nodded toward Vee.

“Oh my God,” said Vee under her breath. She turned to me. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry.”

I reached out, put my hand on hers. Elsa did the same.

“Almost done, honey,” whispered Elsa.

And then my little daughter sniffed heavily, and looked straight down the barrel of the lens. “Please, Licia, it’s time to come home.” And her eyes were raw, and tears were cascading down her cheeks.

I leaned forward and took her in my arms.