She taps my shoulder.

“Adam, how about I take Aubrey to my cabin?” She glances upward to the sloping driveway that leads to the cabins. A black SUV with gold accents inches its way to the parking area. The Mason County sheriff has arrived.

My eyes, vision blurry without my glasses, somehow meet hers, and I give her a slow nod. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Teresa,” she says.

“Right.” I put my hands on Aubrey’s shoulders. “Honey, I want you to go with Teresa. You can play with her grandchildren.”

Aubrey’s confused, scared. She’s been part of the trauma. “I want Mommy.”

“I know,” I tell her. “We’re going to find her. I’ll be right here. Okay? Just for a minute.”

“We made popsicles this morning,” Teresa says.

Aubrey swings her attention to the nice older woman but stays mute.

“Cherry punch,” Teresa adds, selling a distraction to a three-year-old with grandparental skill.

“Go on, now,” I tell her. “Daddy will be right here.”

My little girl turns to go with Teresa, and I head in the direction of the SUV, my pace quickening to a run over the broad lawn along the bulkhead.

“Thank God you’re here!” I call out to the officers. My voice cracks a little, and I reel in some emotion. Need to be clear. Need to tell them what happened.

It’s a man and a woman. He’s the older of the pair, with silver hair, wire-framed glasses.

The woman is familiar to me. Her hair is long and pulled back. Her face is a smear of freckles.

“Lee?” I ask.

“Adam. It’s been a while.”

Her partner, who identifies himself as Zach Montrose, gives her an interested look. “You know each other?”

She keeps her eyes on me. I see a faint smile of reminiscence, but this is not a happy reunion. How could it be?

“We grew up together,” she says. “He was Kip’s best friend.”

Kip was her older brother. We went all the way from kindergarten through high school together. He enlisted in the army and never came back from Afghanistan. The last time I saw Lee was at the memorial service the Husemanns held to remember their son. I remember standing in front of the congregation at the Shelton Bible Church and recalling the kind of person Kip was (“shirt off his back . . . never knew a stranger . . . always ready to help someone”), my eyes refusing to look in the direction of his parents and sister because I didn’t want to break down. I like to be in control. I like to make sure that everything I do is done with purpose.

“Small world.” Montrose surveys the scene.

“I heard you were a police officer,” I say. Lee has green eyes. That’s what was familiar about her.

“I’m a detective,” she says, the flash of any warmth in our quasi reunion suddenly gone. “Let’s go over everything that happened.”

“We’ve got to find her,” I plead.