I ran past her and flung open the door.

Outside, every breath I took was like cold water rushing through my lungs. I scanned the street in both directions. The sidewalk in front of the variety store, fudge shop, and row of boutiques across the way was empty. It was the same story to the left, where James Street sloped down toward the river. I could see the water flowing black and smooth at the bottom of the road, and in the distance, Heart Island. This was A-Bay’s downtown strip, and it was crammed with retail stores and well-concealed alleyways. Plenty of places to hide.

I went back inside and searched the walls and ceiling for a security camera, some sort of tangible evidence. Nothing.

The hat.

I took out my phone and called Sam.

“Change your mind about the coffee?” His tone was optimistic.

“Tell me you’re still at the studio.”

“I just left. Why?”

“Can you go back? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

He only hesitated for a second before saying, “Sure, okay. Did you forget something?”

“Not exactly.” I told him what I needed, and to text me as soon as he had it.

I dialed Tim next. When I left a message, heavy on the expletives, the shop owner looked nervously down at her hands. “Call me the second you get this,” I said, and followed it up with a three-character text to show him I was serious. 911.

At some point over the past two minutes, I’d started instinctively breathing through my nose. It was a coping mechanism Carson had drilled into me during therapy, and while I resented its origins, I had to admit it helped. My fitness for duty eval was three days away. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—lose my shit now.

At last, my cell phone rang.

“Shane, what the—”

“Tim, thank God. Trey Hayes. What was he wearing on the field trip?”

There was a pause. “Think you found him?” Tim’s tone was cautious; he could hear the urgency in my own. Finding a missing kid isn’t always a happy occasion, especially when you live by the water.

“It’s not that,” I said. “I just need to know.”

“Last seen wearing jeans and a lightweight blue jacket. Black winter boots.”

“What about—”

“And a baseball hat. Purple and black.”

I drew a breath. “Purple Pirates.”

“That’s right.” Tim sounded increasingly troubled. “What’s going on?”

My phone buzzed. Sam was back at the studio.

So, yeah, his text message read. The guy in the hat did leave a name. Abraham Skilton. Why do you ask?

“Tim,” I said, staring out at the street beyond the shop windows, my voice impossibly thin. “I think I know who took Trey.”

ELEVEN

The cat was only the beginning.

We’ll look for clues, Abe used to say. Want to, Shay? He’d bounce on his heels as he awaited my reply, even though it was always the same.