“Any trucker who comes in, I ask if they’ve seen Artie, but no one has, and most don’t know him at all. It’s like he disappeared off the edge of the world.”

“Or he’s hiding from me.”

“One guy did say that he thought he knew who Artie’s agent is. But he couldn’t remember the name. Says he’ll find out and get back to me. I didn’t want to bother you with that bit of noninformation.”

“Artie is like the invisible man. No one sees him. No one knows him.”

“What if he was in an accident or something? Maybe that’s why he’s invisible.”

It’s a good idea, and I wonder if I can get the state police to tell me if an Arthur Schmidt was involved in any accidents, is maybe dead. As long as he didn’t have my dog with him at the time, it wouldn’t break my heart. But the idea doesn’t take hold. “He’s a gypsy driver. Accountable to no one that we know of. Rockin’ Roadie. That’s all anyone on the road knows him by. He could have gotten a load and headed to Canada, or gone down south, or driven anywhere but back to Washington.”

“Justine, he’s got to be somewhere, and so does Mack.” I can tell by the tone of her voice that Candy is distracted, customers coming in for an early-morning pop. It’s only nine there.

A beep beckons me away from Candy to another call. I wouldn’t jump from Candy’s call except that it might be the one that I’m waiting for, the next call to move me closer to finding Mack. Every time the phone rings, my heart does a little dance of useless hope.

It’s Adele, wondering where I am and why am I not there. Could it be because she sent me away? There have been a couple of moments when I’ve wondered if she is all right mentally. She’s made little slips that have puzzled me, like when she lost the word for toilet paper, or when she told me something that just didn’t add up about Paul’s kids, as if she was talking about much younger children. I’ve worked in a nursing home. I’ve been assigned to the Alzheimer’s wing. I know the difference between forgetfulness and senility. But I have never been there at the beginning, when the mind begins to retract. I’m not sure if incipient senility is what I’m seeing, or if my opinion of Adele is so harsh, I’m wishing.

“Are you on your way back?”

“In a minute, I’m waiting for them to find your watch.”

“Don’t wait for it. Come now.”

Normally, that demand would have been spoken in Adele’s naturally imperious tone. Not this time. She sounds panicked.