Marshall pirated the shot and a good face shot of Geoff, too. Then he attached both to an email and sent them to Gabrielle and Bree along with his notes, the couple’s names and address, and Kelly Wilkerson’s social-media links.

He could hear Bree moving around the great room again. Pacing, he thought. Not talking. She must still be trying to get up the courage to call Trey. He felt for her, but his cop brain pointed out that if Trey was still ignorant, he was also likely in a calm state of mind. He could be useful.

Marshall took advantage of her hesitation, texting Trey pictures of all three Wilkersons. He’d forwarded himself the still shot of the old woman from Bree’s phone earlier. Now he cropped it in close, so Trey wouldn’t recognize his own porch, and sent that, too.

He texted, Do you know any of these people?

He saw the dots that meant Trey was answering, then, No. Did you hear about Spencer? Were you there?

He was clearly upset, answering so fast that there had not been time for him to do anything but glance at the pictures in passing.

Marshall thought fast, then replied, I’d already left the party, but I heard. I’m very sorry for your loss. I know it’s a bad time, but this is for a case, and it won’t wait, okay? Take a minute. Look carefully. Maybe even check your contact lists or emails or old case files, if you can access them remotely. The couple is Adam and Kelly Wilkerson. That’s their son, Geoff. Her maiden name was Frier.

Marshall waited for a moment, but no further answer came. He’d give Trey a few minutes. Hopefully Trey would answer before Bree called him.

He couldn’t imagine that conversation, or what Trey might think, say, feel. If they didn’t find the daughter, would Trey go to the carousel and trade himself for Robert? Marshall would, for Cara. It wasn’t even a question. He thought Trey would, too.

He knew Trey pretty well. Not just from work. Back when Betsy was alive, their families got together a few times a year. In summer especially. Trey would grill shrimp and steak and veggie skewers in the outdoor kitchen. Cara and Anna-Claire had played well together then, like same-age cousins who only met on holidays. Peyton, a year younger, tagged behind, and Trey would intervene nine times a night to make the older girls include her. Back then the yard had a swing set and a slide and a sandbox, nicer than the equipment at the park near his house. The sandbox even had a lid.

“I keep it shut unless they’re using it. Religiously. Otherwise the girls would pretty much be romping in a giant litter box,” Trey’d told him once, laughing.