“How do you …” Bob’s voice trembled, and he stopped talking. He moved his legs under the desk, hoping to hide the bandages that bulged out visibly under both pant legs.

“What did you find?” the woman asked.

He didn’t answer.

“What was there?” she pressed. “When you got on your hands and knees and crawled through the beams and the wire? What was there?”

“Nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing was there.”

“And the police? They found nothing?”

“No, nothing. There wasn’t anything. I went out again today just to be …” He spread his hands on the desk in front of him, collecting his nerves. “We run a good business,” he said firmly. “I don’t feel comfortable talking about this. If I’m in some kind of trouble, then I think—”

“You’re not in any trouble, Bob, as long as you can do me one little favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Simple.” The woman leaned over Bob, bracing herself on the arms of his chair, so close her face almost touched his. “Take me there.”

*  *  *

John pulled into the parking lot at the construction site and immediately saw Oliver standing in front of the gate of the chain-link fence. His arms were crossed, and he was chewing on something, his face grim. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to move out of the way, John slowed to a stop and got out.

“What’s going on?” he asked. Oliver continued to chew on whatever was in his mouth.

“I have to let you go,” he said at last. “You’re late, again.”

“I’m not late,” John protested, then glanced at his watch. “I mean, not by much,” he amended. “Come on, Oliver. It won’t happen again, I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Oliver said. “Good luck, John.”

“Oliver!” John called. Oliver let himself in through the gate and glanced back one more time before walking away. John leaned against his car for a moment. Several coworkers were staring at him, suddenly turning away as John noticed them. John got in his car and headed back the way he had come.

When he returned to his apartment, John sat down on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands. “Now what?” he wondered aloud, and glanced around the room. His eyes lit on his only decoration. “You still look terrible,” he said to Theodore’s disembodied head. “And you’re still in worse shape than me.” The notion of attending the party that night suddenly returned to him. The thought of it set off a nervous fluttering in his stomach, but he wasn’t sure what it was—anxiety, or excitement. I thought she was dead, too, Jessica had said the night before. I’ve seen her. I’ve talked to her. It is her.