Accept my help on a case that was already stalled, or send me home and risk losing our target if I was right about Bram’s involvement? From where I was sitting, the decision was easy. Tim must have known I wouldn’t take no for an answer, because it wasn’t long before his shoulders slumped forward in defeat. “See you back here at nine,” he said.

* * *

While I inhaled a prepackaged sandwich from the Price Chopper up the road, chugged another bottle of water, and made the round trip to Mac’s house for outdoor gear, Tim managed to pull a fully formed media event from his ass. I got back to the station to find a crowd of spectators had coalesced in the parking lot, where they looked expectantly at a flimsy plywood podium and a placard displaying an enlarged print of Trey’s latest school photo, along with the phone number for our tip line. Night had long since descended on A-Bay, but the camera crews’ equipment cut a swath of light through the inky darkness. The podium, and Trey’s photo, shone like a beacon on a sea cliff. I hoped it would be enough to call the boy home.

The first person I ran into was Don Bogle, who, while speed-smoking a cigarette, told me he’d be videoing the event and streaming the footage to Twitter. At six-foot-six, he’d have a clear sightline to the podium over the heads of the civilians. When I praised him for the idea, he admitted it was Tim’s. I was impressed.

Outfitted in McIntyre’s old ski jacket and Cossack hat, with a flannel scarf wrapped around my face, I joined the mob of similarly dressed bystanders who’d come to watch. Like highway car crashes, these types of events always generated attention. I liked to think onlookers gathered out of sympathy for the family, but just as many were there to rap on the door to their humanity and make sure somebody was still home.

I hadn’t been waiting long before Tim emerged from the station with Richard and Virginia Hayes. They arranged themselves behind the podium, where they were flanked by Jeremy Solomon, his gray hair oscillating like wheat in the wind, and Mac, who’d turned up as a show of police community support. With a solemn nod at the sheriff, Tim approached the mic.

It should have been me up there. This duty was right in my wheelhouse. But the crowd was where I belonged tonight. Peering out from between my hat and the scarf, I drew an icy breath and began to scan the dozens of faces that surrounded me.

“Good evening,” Tim said into the microphone. “I’m BCI Investigator Tim Wellington with the New York State Police, stationed here in Alexandria Bay. With the assistance of Investigators Solomon and Bogle, and support from Jefferson County Sheriff Maureen McIntyre and our local law enforcement partners, I am heading the investigation into the disappearance of nine-year-old local resident Trey Hayes.”