He pulled a second sheet of newsprint out of the moldering leaves. It was dated February 19 and plastered with ads for long-expired President’s Day sales. But that only meant Gelfland had been gone a while. Which Musil already knew.

He rose, went over to the car, unlocked it. Then opened the driver’s door and poked his head through. Everything looked normal to him. In fact, the interior was immaculate. He saw no empty water bottles, coffee cups, coins or food wrappers. No clutter or junk of any kind.

Musil knelt for a cursory look under the driver’s seat. The carpet was meticulously clean, its napping free of grit or soil tracked in from outside, which was exceptional for a two-year-old car. It fit Clara’s portrait of Gelfland. Probably he vacuumed it on a regular basis.

Musil was about to pull his head out of the car when something caught his eye. A white slip of paper between the bottom of the center console and the driver’s seat. He guessed it must have dropped down there unnoticed.

He got in behind the steering wheel, slid his hand under the seat and groped for it. After a few seconds his fingers found the slip and pulled it out.

It was a sales receipt. A cash register printout. Crisp and clearly legible. The name of the store was Rany’s Market Basket. A nearby address. The date stamp was November 22, 2023. The time read 19:00:35. Seven o’clock at night.

He checked the calendar on his watch and then read down the list of grocery items. A frozen turkey breast, stuffing mix, cranberry sauce, two sweet potatoes. A pumpkin pie. Canned whipped cream. Beer. A pack of paper towels.

Musil sat there looking at the receipt for several minutes. He wasn’t sure what it meant. Or that it meant anything. But he folded and deposited it neatly into his jacket pocket before locking up the car.

He walked back up to the house, stopping a few feet from the door to think. He’d suddenly remembered the squirrel up on the roof. Its cheeks full of nuts that it had gathered to stash away for a later date.

He went back into the house. Clara was waiting for him in the living room, the look on her face equal parts anticipation and dread. Musil had seen it countless times on the families of the missing. Did you find anything out about my son? Daughter? Wife? Anything at all?

He decided to show her the register receipt.

“Your cousin went to the market the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving,” he said. “It’s close by. A five-minute drive from here.”

She nodded, reading the list. Then her brow creased. “So Steve fixed Thanksgiving dinner. Like he told me he would.”

“He certainly bought the groceries.” Musil paused, curious. “Didn’t you tell me he left right after the holiday weekend?”