Five minutes later, they pulled into the lot. There were six or seven other police cars already there. Somebody was handing out water bottles. “For Emma,” they said. “If she’s out for any length of time, she could be dehydrated.”

It was a hot September day. Close to ninety degrees. A.L. and Rena both took off their suit coats. He grabbed two water bottles—one for Emma and one for himself. He wasn’t coming out of that field until somebody found her. Rena did the same. And when one of the FBI agents pointed and said, “We need more bodies over here,” the two of them headed in that direction.

“Stay in one row. Look left and right as you go, to cover three rows at a time,” the agent instructed. He pointed for A.L. to start in one spot with Rena a few rows over.

It was hot. And the drying leaves of the corn stalks slapped them in their faces. The vegetation produced a dense cloying smell that made A.L. want to throw up. “Come on, Emma. Come on, honey,” he said. He walked at a fast pace but not so fast that he couldn’t carefully scan right and left. A curled up five-year-old could get very small. Within minutes he had sweat running down the back of his neck. Ten minutes later, he emerged from the end of the row. Rena was seconds behind him.

There was another FBI agent at that end. He pointed at two more rows and A.L. and Rena started a return route. They did it four more fucking times. By that point, they’d both emptied their water bottles and grabbed two more from one of the cases that somebody had left on the ground for just that purpose.

Nobody was stopping for more than a few seconds at the end of the row before plunging back into the dense field. A.L. spent the time mentally kicking his own ass. If they’d been a half hour earlier, maybe they’d have stopped Catherine before she’d left her house. If they’d have somehow ferreted out that Kara had a biological sister. If they’d have realized that Claire Potter wasn’t off in her suggestion that Kara and Steven had something going.

Should have. Would have. Could have. And now a five-year-old’s life hung in the balance.

He picked up the pace, almost jogging. His heart was beating noisily in his chest, reverberating in his ears. Maybe from exertion. Maybe from fear. That combined with the thrashing of other officers working their way through the field almost made him miss it.

But there it was.

“Help.”

A small voice.

And there she was. Dressed in the same outfit that had been described in a thousand posters and email posts. Sitting on the ground. Looking up. Streaks of dried tears on her dirty face.