My gaze slid to Trey’s parents. This was usually the moment when family members snapped out of their daze and found themselves staring into the jaws of a real-life nightmare. Both Richard and Virginia Hayes were rigid but dry-eyed, staring blankly at the news cameras. Tim looked much the same. He was holding up well. Until I showed up in A-Bay, murders and kidnappings were practically unheard of, and that was the way Tim liked it. I knew how profoundly thoughts of this boy, cleaved from his family and out in the cold, must be affecting him.

They were affecting me, too. If I was right, and Bram was behind this, the blame was squarely on me. My history with my cousin was complicated, but there was no disputing the role I played in his departure from Swanton, and what leaving his family—leaving me—did to him.

“This is an active investigation,” Tim went on. “We’ve received close to a hundred tips so far, and we encourage anyone who thinks they know something about Trey’s disappearance or current whereabouts—no matter how seemingly inconsequential—to call. We’re also asking those who were at or near the municipal dock here in Alexandria Bay this morning between the hours of nine and twelve to call in. If you think you’ve seen Trey”—Tim gestured at the placard—“whose photo is also available on the New York State Police Twitter and Facebook feeds, we urge you to contact us immediately.”

After a beat, Tim cleared his throat. “I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the community for your support thus far. We’re doing everything in our power to ensure that Trey is reunited with his family, and the assistance we get from individuals and local businesses here in town as well as the surrounding areas will be invaluable to our investigation. Now, I’ll turn the microphone over to Richard and Virginia Hayes, Trey’s parents, for a brief statement.”

If the onset of a news conference is the moment when a criminal investigation is made real for the victim’s family, then a statement from the parents is that moment for the community. Soft murmurs reverberated through the crowd as Tim traded places with Trey’s mom and dad. To my left I could see Bogle, his iPhone held steady eight feet in the air. The mnemonic I’d created to distinguish between my two investigators when we first met—Shaggy Solomon, Big Bogle—flashed through my mind. Feeling my eyes on him, he dispatched a bleak smile. I hiked Mac’s scarf up over my nose.

My eyes darted from one male onlooker to another. Too old, too young, too short, too tall. As Richard Hayes began to speak, reiterating Tim’s plea to share any and all pertinent information, I noticed Tim watching me. It wasn’t obvious. To anyone else it would look as though he was staring at the frozen horizon. Beneath his heavy brow, though, his eyes scavenged the area around me, ensuring nobody was coming too close, searching for signs of trouble. It wasn’t until I realized he was monitoring my position that a cold frisson snaked up my spine.