“That’s quite a collection you have there, Zander,” he said about the filing cabinets as Zahn returned to the hall with a glass of water. Vince accepted it and took a long drink. “You keep a lot of paper documentation?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I keep every paper filed accordingly.”

“You know, Tony tells me computers are the way of the future. You remember Tony, don’t you? He’s all about the high-tech. He says pretty soon we won’t need paper. Everything will be on computers.

“It’s starting already. Even in law enforcement. Old records are getting converted into computer files. Fingerprints are going into databases,” he went on. “Now me, I’m an old-fashioned kind of a guy. I’m a people person. I like to talk to people. Face-to-face if I can. But if I can’t—say if the person I want to talk to is in Buffalo, for example—I don’t hesitate to pick up the phone and call.”

At the mention of Buffalo, Zahn blinked as if he’d been hit in the face with a drop of water.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Zander?” Vince suggested, moving down to one end of the bench.

Zahn sat down on the opposite end and began rubbing his palms on his thighs, fretting.

“It’s okay, Zander,” Vince said softly. “I don’t judge, either. I understand sometimes people have to do what they have to do in order to save themselves. It’s okay. It isn’t always easy to be kid.”

Zahn said nothing. He had gone inward. He started rocking a little and kept rubbing his hands against his thighs—still trying to wipe the blood off all these years later.

Vince sat quietly, not wanting to push, letting Zahn absorb and process what he was saying. Nor did he want to wait so long the silence became uncomfortable.

“I know your story, Zander,” he said, in that same soft, nonthreatening voice. “I know about your mother. That was a tough time for you. She was hard on you. You were just a boy, trying to be good. I bet you tried really hard, didn’t you? You weren’t a bad kid. You’re just not like everybody else. You couldn’t help that.”

Zahn rocked a little harder and made a tiny sound in his throat, like a small, trapped animal.

“Nobody blamed you, Zander. It wasn’t your fault.”

Shaking his head, staring at the floor, Zahn said, “I don’t want to tell this story, Vince.”

“You don’t have to. I know what happened. She tried to hurt you. You protected yourself. Right?”

“I don’t want to tell this story, Vince. Stop telling this story. Stop it.”

“Being the one to find Marissa,” Vince said. “That had to be a pretty terrible shock. It probably brought back some bad old memories, huh?”