Montrose looks over in their direction. “Calling his wife’s folks.”

“Wouldn’t want to make that call,” I say.

“Nothing could be worse.”

No argument there. From what Adam told us, Sophie is gutsy and strong. She’s got a fighting chance if some weirdo grabbed her. At least I hope so. Before getting my shield, I taught a self-defense class.

“Who does something like this in broad daylight?” I ask.

“Some crazy person,” Montrose says. “Someone who either stalked her or saw an opportunity and took her.”

Off the dining room is a bedroom with bunk beds. The bottom bed is unmade, its sailboat-themed coverlet is pushed to the floor. A child’s stuffed animal, which I now know is a character from Paw Patrol, from the same graphic that’s on Aubrey’s shirt, is tucked next to the pillows.

“We need to talk to the girl,” I say.

“She’s pretty little,” he says.

We head through the dining room on our way to the master bedroom. I notice a pair of women’s sunglasses adjacent to what I assume is Sophie’s purse. Just sitting there like a tableau of a life now on pause.

“Right,” I say, processing the space. “But she still might be able to tell us something.”

Montrose is the first to notice it when we enter the bedroom. The bed’s right side is smooth, and the pillows are stacked neatly against the headboard.

“Looks like only one side of the bed was slept in,” he says. “Kind of interesting.”

“You don’t believe his story.” My words come out a little defensively, and it surprises me. I know Adam Warner, but not that well.

Montrose has been a detective a lot longer than I. He’s back on his second chance, though, having left the department for two years following a substance-abuse problem that could have ruined his life. He’s got great instincts, but I don’t always agree with him. I like to be right too.

“A few holes in his story,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like that he couldn’t get to shore in time to save her. A hundred yards out? Biceps like his? Guy spends a lot of time to look that strong. Seems like he could have gotten to her.”

“He couldn’t even see.”

“Right. The glasses.”

“Yes, they fell off.”

Montrose makes a face. “Pretty convenient.”

“You’re mad because you missed lunch.”

“Only a little mad.”

I sigh. “Fine. Food later. Let’s remember. The evidence is our guide here. Not your gut.”

Montrose pats his belly, which hangs over his belt like a canopy.

“I like my gut.”

I give him a smile. His gut is empty.

“Besides, abductions like this just don’t happen. Not in front of someone’s house.”

“This isn’t someone’s house,” I say. “It’s a vacation rental. Transient. People come and go.”

A carved wooden-bear coatrack and a slipcovered sofa decorated with faded denim pillows dominate the living room. I notice a throw on the sofa.

I circle the room. “Maybe one of them slept out here.”