“Thanks. Can’t promise I’ll make it,” I said, contrite, “but I’ll do my best.” At the counter the man set down his pen, mumbled a word of thanks, and left.

“He won’t be back,” Sam said.

“How do you know?”

“I sensei it.”

I groaned, but Sam knew he’d nailed the joke. We grinned at each other. He did have a great smile.

“Listen,” I said, growing serious. “The other day, when I . . . you know.”

“Clammed up? It happens, especially to people who’ve been through what you have.”

“You seem to know a lot about PTSD.”

Sam squared his shoulders. “My sister. It happened on a date.”

Oh, God. “I’m so sorry. Is she okay?”

“She wasn’t. She is now. Most of the time.”

“Most of the time,” I repeated, thinking of my sleepless nights on McIntyre’s sofa. “So that’s normal, then.”

“It’s a long road back from trauma like that.”

“Yeah.” I paused. “Here’s the thing. The way I responded in class? That can’t happen again.”

“I’ve seen what you can do, Shana, and you’re closer to your goal than you think. Keep coming in, and you’ll get there. That’s a promise.”

I believed him, not because of his teaching skills, but because of his sister. If I could trust anyone to train me the way I needed to be trained, it was Sam.

Back in my SUV, which had barely begun to cool, I checked my messages. Sam’s number popped up on my screen, but there was nothing from Tim and Mac. Not knowing what they were doing, what they’d learned, whether they’d found some evidence of what happened to Trey, was driving me insane.

There were a disproportionate number of souvenir and gift shops in A-Bay, but I took Sam’s advice and ten minutes later found myself at kitschy Smuggler’s Cargo, where a huge rusted anchor welcomed visitors at the door. The place was a labyrinth of tight aisles crammed with merchandise that ranged from stuffed animals and shot glasses to mugs and sweatshirts. Much of it boasted a pirate theme. In the mid-1800s, famed smuggler Bill Johnston pillaged supply ships and the occasional passenger steamer on the St. Lawrence River, and he’d become an iconic figure in the village. As I’d discovered upon my arrival in A-Bay, the pirate was commemorated annually with a ten-day summer festival of family fun—breeches, waistcoats, and all.

There was nobody in the shop but the owner, an elegant older lady who said her name was Annette and looked ecstatic to see me. It was November in a town built for summer tourists; the poor woman had to be bored out of her mind. I let her show me to the birthday cards, even though they were displayed in plain sight not three paces from the door.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Annette said while I browsed. “About that boy?”

If Mac had alerted the local news, reports about Trey’s disappearance were being broadcast all over the county by now. No child would be walking the streets alone tonight.