I don’t say anything.

“FBI can’t get involved unless they’re convinced it’s a kidnapping. Ransom request and all that. Can you believe that bullshit? Not a federal crime. Bet they’d feel differently if it had been their little girl.”

He always calls her that. His little girl. Like she’s stunted at six and not a grown woman of thirty-three.

“I think we would have heard from a kidnapper by now,” I say, though I’m not sure of the logic of what I’m saying. While Frank rants on, I mull it over. I think of what I could say to him. Her phone is at the cabin. My phone is in my hand. Unless the kidnapper has my number because this was a planned abduction and not the act of some random freak, it’s doubtful he’d be able to contact me. Sure, he could call the police, I guess. Or the news media. A direct conduit isn’t a likely option.

But I don’t say anything. Frank only likes the sound of his own voice.

“I called KOMO TV,” Frank finally says. Make that, announces. “Linda London is going to see what she can find out.”

Linda London is the last of the old guard at a Seattle TV station that has tried, with reasonable success, to make itself over into a news source for the hipper, younger Seattle crowd that has taken over the city since Amazon began its winning quest for world domination. Linda is pushing fifty, but despite a face-lift and Botox injections that have left her nearly expressionless—even at a fire scene in which two were killed—she’s determined to fight for airtime to the bitter end.

I can’t stand her. I’ve mentioned this before. Frank knows this. I’m sure that’s why he handpicked her.

“Great,” I say. “Any help is appreciated. Got to find Sophie.”

I hear a car pull in, and I look out the window in the direction of the parking area. It’s the blue Lexus. The couple from the third cabin, the Lily, has returned. She’s got her arms hooked around him, leading him across the lawn. I keep my ear to the phone to hear what Frank says next, but he’s done. He doesn’t even say good-bye. He just hands the phone back to Helen, who in typical form offers up a non sequitur.

“We had cherry pie for dessert tonight.”

“Bye, Helen,” I say. “Give Aubrey a good-night kiss from me.”

I call my family next. First my mom in Chandler, Arizona. Then my dad away on his annual hunting trip in Spokane. Finally, my brother, Keegan, in Los Angeles. I tell them all the same thing, and they reveal themselves in their responses.

Me: “I wanted you to hear from me before the news picks it up.”

Mom: “Oh, dear God.”

Dad: “Sure she didn’t run off with anyone?”

Keegan: “Need me to fly up?”

I know Keegan would drop everything at the Orange County hotel he’s managing. He’d be here by morning.