“At the time,” Dad went on, lovingly shaping a second ball of dough, “we thought Brett buggering off to Philadelphia was for the best. If he had any hope of reforming himself, he wasn’t going to manage with the likes of Russell Loming for a friend. Loming was more of a skiver than Brett.”

“Russell Loming?” I said. The name wasn’t familiar.

“His best mate. I ran into him at the hardware store, oh, last year it must have been. He’s still working in manufacturing, at the maple-sugaring equipment plant now.”

“Felicia was furious, too, when she got the news that Brett was going away,” said Mom. “God knows it wasn’t easy living with Fee, and I can’t blame him for wanting a normal life, but what kind of person leaves the state without telling his own children good-bye?”

“So Brett quit his job and left,” I said. “That could have been when it happened. It’s possible he planned to say good-bye but died before he could do it.”

“I suppose,” said Dad. I could tell he hoped it was true, that he was conflicted about how to treat the memory of his dead brother-in-law. My father liked to give people a fair shake, and Brett hadn’t made that easy.

In my pocket, I felt my phone buzz.

The sight of McIntyre’s name on the display was startling, an abrupt reminder of the life I’d momentarily forgotten in A-Bay. Wiping my hands on a dish towel and excusing myself, I hurried out into the hall.

“How would you like to spend a few days in Vermont?” I asked Mac, taking the stairs two at a time and ducking into my old bedroom. The walls were still yellow, the curtains Mom had sewed decades ago striped in ballet pink. “I could seriously use a distraction.”

“I can help with that,” said the sheriff in a tone I didn’t like. “I’m calling on official police business. We’ve got a situation over here.”

“Must be bad if I’m on your call list.” McIntyre had kept me up to speed on the county’s most recent crimes throughout my suspension, but only as dinner conversation or an aside as we passed each other in her hall. I was touched she’d gone out of her way to call about a new case. Touched and a little concerned.

“Tim’s on it,” Mac assured me, “but you’re still my most senior investigator, so I want your take, too. Because you’re right. It’s bad. A kid’s gone missing, nine-year-old boy by the name of Trey Hayes.” She took a breath and rattled off the details. Local. African American. Brown hair and eyes. Small for his age. “Real cutie,” she said sadly. “Last seen about two hours ago on a field trip to Boldt Castle.”

“In November?” The castle, I knew, was on Heart Island, only accessible by water. School kids would have to take a ferry from A-Bay to reach it. It had already been chilly on the river back in October, when Tim and I worked the Tern Island case.