When the taxi turned into Kevin’s old street, I spied patrol cars. Two of them, parked haphazardly in a V-shape on the front lawn of a small house, blocking the footpath. My heart twisted. I had been right. My instincts, whatever it was that made him keep coming back into my mind, standing there staring at the picture. He had come here. Before I knew anything about what was happening at the house, I knew, in my soul, that he had come here.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” I beat on the back of the driver’s chair, threw notes at him as he ground to a halt. I got out and sprinted down the street. It felt good to be running, not sitting idly waiting for the horror to unfold before me. Already, neighbors were coming out of their houses, stopping on the corners, pointing. I turned the corner of the picket fence, ran up the stairs and through the open front door.

There was a woman talking frantically somewhere up ahead inside the house, the huge leathery presence of cops in the small kitchen. I stumbled down the hall, searing with dread, past photographs on the walls of the girl from the picture. The very same girl. Penny. White hair. Big eyes. Penny was Claire. I could see it now. The waiflike figure hanging upside down from monkey bars, pirouetting on a big empty beach. The cops in the kitchen twigged to my presence immediately. I was met at the doorway to the kitchen with an open palm, some young beat cop with his other hand on his gun.

“Whoa whoa whoa! Stop right there!”

“Is she okay?” I kept coming, forced the cop to back up. I saw him unclip the buckle on the gun. “Is the girl okay?”

Four cops, all on high alert. Shouting. I looked into the kitchen. There at the table, a woman sitting with the girl, Penny, in her lap. The girl was curled against her chest, red-faced, wailing, the uncomposed, growly crying of a child. The mother looked as though she’d been doing some wailing of her own. She hardly noticed my presence. Her words were rushing together, panicked.

“… said he just wanted to talk to her. He kept saying it. That he just wanted to talk. He shoved the door open. I was screaming. No one would come!”

“Where did he go?” I gripped the frame of the door to stop myself from rushing forward and grabbing the woman by her shoulders. “Kevin Driscoll—where did he go?”

The mother looked at me. She knew the name. Kevin.

“Conkaffey.” One of the street cops had clued onto me now, recognized my face. “Jesus fuck! What are you doing here? Get out! Get him the fuck out!”

“That’s Ted Conkaffey!” someone gasped.

“Is this the guy? Is that the guy who came here?”