Back home with Millicent circling my ankles, my phone buzzes. I see it’s Frank Flynn, and I cannot stomach another one of his calls. Honestly, I’ve never felt this way about a victim’s family member. But Sophie Warner’s father is the kind of man who makes the worst possible moment in his life even grimmer. It’s after nine, and the late hour gives me a weak excuse not to answer. I could be asleep. Obviously I’m not. I look at my phone and wait for the tone to indicate a message has been left. It takes a while. This, I’m sure, is going to be classic Frank Flynn—not a good thing at all.

“Detective,” he says, “I hope you are out somewhere building a case against my goddamn son-in-law. Helen and I were over at his house tonight. He had the nerve to threaten me. Said he’d keep Aubrey from me if I kept pushing for the truth. Well, it doesn’t work that way. No one pushes Frank Flynn around with a threat. Adam’s up to something. You need to get in there and question him. Put him under a hot lamp or something. Wish you could waterboard him. I wish I could beat it out of him. Don’t make me do that. Do your goddamn job and shake the truth from him.”

As he goes on, I can hear Helen in the background sobbing about Aubrey, repeating her name over and over.

Frank stops addressing me and speaks to his wife.

“This is bigger than Aubrey, Helen! This is about our Sophie. Pull yourself together!”

Then back to the message he’s intent on leaving.

“He was behaving very strangely tonight. He didn’t confess, but he said and did some things that point in the direction of his obvious guilt. He said he was glad Sophie was gone. He was. He said so. And get this, Detective: he’d put all sorts of her things in a big box and gave them to us. It was like he couldn’t wait to erase her from his life. Who does that but a goddamn guilty man? I expect you to get off your ass and put a bow on this case. You know who did it. He did it. Call me back.”

I get a beer from the fridge and drink it standing up by the kitchen sink. I’m just like my father then. He always did his best thinking in the kitchen, beer in hand, looking out the window.

It’s dark outside. The neighbor’s floodlights cast a bright white glow against the picket fence that separates our yards, sending bars of light across my lawn. I hear the cat door swing open as Millicent comes back inside.