Rena typed as they walked down the art-lined hallway. They’d had a box—hell, Jacqui might still have it—of similar masterpieces that Traci had created. Every night before he’d left for work—he’d been doing nights in those years—he’d made a big deal out of what Traci had produced that day.

What the fuck would he have done if one of those days she simply hadn’t come home?

He knocked on the classroom door before pulling it open. Leah Whitman was perched awkwardly on a small plastic chair. Troy was in the far corner of the room, his back to the door, his cell phone at his ear. He turned when he heard the door and ended his conversation. He put his phone in his pocket as he crossed the room. He was wearing matching blue work pants and shirt and he smelled faintly of oil and sweat.

“Any word?” he asked, looking at Rena.

“No, sir,” she said. “This is my partner, Detective McKittridge.” She turned to A.L. “Troy Whitman.”

A.L. stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry for the circumstances, sir. But we’re going to do everything we can to find your daughter.”

Now the woman stood. “I’m Leah Whitman. This is just terrifying.”

“It’s crazy,” Troy said, in a tone that sounded as if he was correcting his wife.

Terrifying? Crazy? For more than ten hours, a five-year-old had been unaccounted for. It was no time to quibble over words. A.L. flipped open his notebook. He wrote the date and by habit, looked at his watch. Notes were always dated and timed. It was twenty-three minutes after six, or 18:23 in military time. Then he did the math, using seven fifteen that morning as the floor. That’s when the clock had started clicking. Didn’t matter that they’d just heard about it. What mattered was how long the child hadn’t been seen. They were somewhere near the start of hour twelve and that’s what he wrote on the second line.

Behind before they’d barely gotten started.

“Can you walk me through your day?” A.L. asked.

“It was just a day, an ordinary day,” Troy Whitman said.

“A few details would be helpful,” A.L. said, looking up. “Either one of you can start.”

“I left the house early,” Leah said.

“What do you do, Mrs. Whitman?” Rena asked.

“I’m a paralegal at Bailey Shepherd.”

The law firm of Bailey Shepherd was located just down the street from the police station. On the rare days that he took time for lunch, he passed it on his way to his favorite diner. “Why did you leave the house early?”

“I had...a meeting.”

“Where?”

“Madison.”

“And what time did it start?”

“Why does that matter?”

It wasn’t a hard or tricky question. A.L. kept his gaze steady.

“Eight o’clock,” Leah said.