“Count on it,” I said confidently, because we’d been looking forward to it for weeks. “First thing in the morning?”

“The coffee shop is delivering coffee boxes at seven.”

“If we’re not there at seven, do we get penalized?”

“In a way. You’ll get less coffee.”

“Then we’ll see you tomorrow at seven.” I waved and headed to Shomin’s Deli. Mindful of my New Year’s resolution, I strong-mindedly stayed away from my favorite of Swiss cheese and green olives on sourdough bread, and instead ordered a salad with grilled chicken, light dressing on the side.

Oddly for the time of year, I didn’t recognize any of the other diners, so I sat by myself at a small table. In my coat pocket was a paperback I’d picked up at the local used bookstore, so after texting Rafe about Container Day, I settled down to War of the Roses: Stormbird, by Conn Iggulden.

I was deep in the Lancaster versus York saga when my attention was caught by the conversation of two women who’d sat in the booth behind me.

“Mrs. Anderson,” one of them said, “I don’t know what to do. I mean, what can we do?”

“There has to be something,” said the other woman. “Every day he’s missing takes a year off my life.”

I half turned. The first woman looked to be in her twenties, the second in her fifties. Despite the difference in their ages and their physical differences—the older woman had short graying hair and a shape that spoke of many meals and not many hours spent exercising, while the younger woman had long dark blond hair with a purple streak and arms the diameter of a stick—their faces matched each other, showing concern and anxiety. And fear.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “And I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but are you talking about Ryan Anderson?”

The older woman gave me a hard look. “This is a private conversation.”

“Wait.” The younger woman put out a hand. “Mrs. Anderson, I think I know who she is. She’s on the bookmobile. Ryan is always talking about Eddie. You know, the bookmobile cat?”

“Minnie Hamilton,” I said, nodding. “Eddie’s mom.” So to speak. I looked at the older woman. “Are you Ryan’s? Mom, I mean?”

She was, and with her was Keegan Kolb, who rented the second floor of an old farmhouse where Ryan was renting the first floor. The two women had met when Mrs. Anderson came north to find her son after she’d been contacted by that downstate detective.

“There’s no way he did what they say he did.” Keegan was emphatic.

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Anderson. “He’s a good boy. I never would have raised someone who could . . . who could do all that.”