Ford stalled, pen in hand. A change in atmosphere fell across the room like a shadow. “Do you normally finish so early?”

“Depends who I’ve got booked in.”

“What did you do in the afternoon?”

“I went home, did some jobs.”

“Was anybody there with you?”

“No, my wife was at work.”

There was a loaded pause. Chris was sure he could smell himself now, smell his own anxiety.

“So you didn’t see anybody else all afternoon?”

“Not until Vicky came home.”

“What time would that have been?”

“Around eleven p.m.”

Ford exchanged a flickering glance with Johnson, then made a note. She waited, scribbled something else, pursed her lips as if in thought.

Abruptly she leaned forward. “Mr. Watson.” Her tone was cool but something strummed his unease. “Do you realize you were the last known person to see Freya?”

His face turned to rubber. “Wasn’t she at school in the afternoon?”

“We thought she was,” Johnson said, forcing Chris to shift his attention onto him. Was this how they were going to do it now? Turn-taking so Chris’s head would swing from side to side? “Freya had a free period after lunch and then psychology. The attendance records said she was there for psychology, but the teacher has since admitted he didn’t take the register at the start of the class as he’s supposed to. He filled it out from memory while the students were off doing research. He’s not convinced Freya was actually there. It seems he wasn’t exactly keeping tabs on his students while they did this ‘independent work.’ A lot of them have admitted the class is”—Johnson carved quote marks in the air—“‘a total doss.’”

“Sounds like you should be questioning this teacher,” Chris blasted back.

“We have done.” This was Ford again now. “But since nobody can confirm Freya made it back from her lesson with you . . .” She let the sentence dangle.

Sweat gathered around Chris’s neckline. For a disorienting second he felt a presence in the empty seat to his right. His feet pressed the floor as though he were braking.

“I dropped her off.” He peeled his collar from his skin. “She walked up the drive. Maybe she doubled back, I don’t know . . .”

“We’ll need you to submit the exact route you drove with her that day. And your movements after you parted ways.”

“I don’t know if I can remember the exact route.”

“You’ll need to try.”

Ford stared at him for a few more moments. Chris tried not to shrink away from her eye contact as he wondered whether she had more to say. He sensed there was a question she hadn’t asked, an angle she was saving. But she slammed her notebook shut.