“The weather,” Mac said by way of explanation. “Tours were supposed to end three weeks ago, but the winters here, they’re long. Any place that can squeeze out a few extra days of tickets—”

“Or bear claw sales.”

“Right.” As she laid out the full story of Trey’s disappearance, I grew just as despondent as she was.

At 9:00 a.m. that morning, thirty-nine fourth-grade students, two teachers, and four parent-chaperones had boarded a couple of district school buses bound for the Alexandria Bay Municipal Dock. A ferry owned by River Rat Boat Tours made two trips to transport its passengers to Heart Island. Although Boldt Castle was normally a self-guided experience, the school had arranged for a guide to take the group through the castle and around the grounds. Tim had confirmed Trey was on the tour, which kicked off at 10:00 a.m.

At 11:20 the group convened at the dock to reboard the tour boat bound for the mainland. That’s when a head count came up short. Trey’s parents, whom Tim had interviewed already, described their son as spirited but well behaved, not prone to fits of rebellion or likely to wander off. He liked school and had been looking forward to the trip. No signs of verbal or physical abuse, and both parents had alibis; they were at work when they got the school’s call.

“Tim’s still out there interviewing teachers and chaperones. Kids, too,” Mac said. “I’m on my way to join him.”

That many interviews would take some time. I drummed my fingers on the dresser, feeling the heat of the phone against my ear. Somehow, I seemed to attract missing persons cases. Pity, that, given the last two I worked ended in tragedy.

“The employees,” I said. “Any progress with them?” I hadn’t had a chance to visit Boldt Castle yet, though Tim kept telling me it was a must-see attraction. I did know it was a legitimate chateau: six stories with something like a hundred and twenty rooms, medieval-style turrets, an actual drawbridge. I thought back to my own school days and my father’s complaints about field trip destinations that weren’t sufficiently equipped for scores of visitors. As the man in charge of the field trip review and approval process for the district, Dad used to say unconventional sites were his undoing.

The Thousand Islands were tourist country, though. “There must have been staff around, even if it isn’t peak season—which means there could have been a shift change,” I said. “Someone might have seen something and left the island before Tim got there.”

“I’ll pass that thought along. Tim would call you himself, but he’s deep in the weeds.”

The weeds. My mind went to the river, crammed with kelp. “The water,” I said. It would be glacial by now. “You don’t think—”

“Don’t know. At nine years old, a kid who grew up around here should be a proficient swimmer. But if he was injured somehow . . .” Her voice trailed off. “We’ve got the local media involved, and it sounds like a few calls have come in to the tip line already. But that water’s deadly. Tim had better work fast.”