This was true. He did. Even more so now that he was a little older and not talking to psychopaths all day and therefore no longer feeling the need to keep every emotion in check. After particularly disappointing games, Dad would go on about missed chances, stolen opportunities, how quickly the nine innings went by . . . all in such a way, it seemed as though he was talking about something a lot deeper than baseball. Mom would tease him about it sometimes. Maybe you and Steinbrenner should start a support group. Or a church. “They can still turn it around, Dad,” Robin said. “The game isn’t over yet.”

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “It isn’t.”

Robin and her father said their good-byes, the sky darkening outside her window and the voice of Michael Kay in the background, groaning over a pathetic, botched play.

AFTER SHE HUNG up, Robin pulled a slip of paper out of her wallet—Quentin Garrison’s number, copied off her caller ID at work. She typed it into her phone and called him, but it went straight to his voice mail. She hung up without leaving a message.

She opened up her laptop, went onto Google Images, and looked up Inland Empire Killers. Far as she could find, there was only one photo of April Cooper and Gabriel LeRoy, and it had been taken at his school dance. He wore a brown tuxedo. She wore a high-collared prairie dress with ruffles at the chin. He stood behind her and gripped her shoulders tightly, as though he were afraid she might float away. It was an old, faded picture, the blues gone grayish, the reds rust brown. Robin could barely make out the faces, but they both looked pale for Californians. He had a kind of creepy, closed-mouth smile. She just looked sad.

The girl had blond hair and a prim, rosebud mouth. Like Mom’s, Robin thought. Robin’s mind, playing tricks on her. April Cooper was three years younger than Mom. April Cooper had died in a fire. But why had she never seen a picture of Mom as a child, as a young girl? Why were there no photographs of her taken before her wedding day?

I’ll ask her about that, when she calls. Robin took both the cordless and her cell into the den and watched the rest of the Yankees game, both phones on the coffee table. The cell vibrated frequently, but only because of her column. Hate tweets. She read a few, then ignored the rest and continued to wait.

She waited until the game was over and it was pitch-black outside and headed upstairs, into her bedroom, slipped under the covers of her empty bed, and set both phones on the night table, yawning. “Long meeting with your important source, Eric,” she said.

Something about the sound of one’s own voice, late at night, all alone in a room . . .