The clippings were mostly from the St. Boudin Ga- zette (this seemed to be a two- or three-page flyer), and they surrounded a large sign and picture in the center of the board. MISSING, it read. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS LITTLE GIRL? The picture below was of a girl who looked to be about Jessica’s age, with straight, jet-black hair held up with bright pink elastics, and a large, gap-toothed smile. “Marie Kennedy disappeared from Jackson Jan. 25” was written in French and English in dark marker below it. “Please call 555-9238 if you have any information. We miss her.”

The room felt a bit darker than before. She glanced around nervously, but the sun was still shining brightly through the windows, painting little yellow squares across the tabletops.

How many people disappear from this area in a year? One, maybe two? And one of them just happens to be a little girl from Jackson?

“Sad, ain’t it?”

Helen spun around. A young man stood before her, leaning an arm casually against the counter, long, greasy hair swept back from his forehead. She hadn’t noticed him when she came in. He wasn’t much taller than she was, but he was thick through the shoulders. He wore a faded, plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and on one meaty bicep she saw the edge of a bluish silver tattoo.

Helen took a step backward.

The young man grinned. “That was the Kennedy girl, lived up near route 15. Got lost a few weeks ago, never found her. Sad, like I said. Her mom used to run this place. She headed out west somewhere after it happened, couldn’t stand being around here anymore.”

Helen nodded in what she hoped was a pleasant manner, trying to hide the shake in her knees. “I hadn’t heard.”

“You’re new in town, ain’t you? My name’s Mike.” The young man stuck out his hand, letting his shirtsleeve ride back farther on his arm and exposing the tattoo fully. It was a thick, silver web with a spider in the middle, its white fangs bared and dripping red. She shuddered and tried to smile.

“My husband and I just moved into a house in Jackson. That’s why this picture interested me.”

“You bothering that young lady, Mike?” A second waitress stared at them from the other end of the counter, where she was pouring a cup of coffee for one of the men seated on a stool. Her sleeves were rolled up as well, and though the tattoo was conspicuously absent, her arms held the same bulk and solidity as the young man’s. A worthy adversary, Helen decided immediately. Thank God.

“She looked curious, is all. Thought maybe I could help out. Always aiming to please, you know me, Angie.”

“Well, you let her alone now, you hear? I don’t want to have to call Bobby down here again.”