After a moment, he pulled himself back inside and shut the window, then drew the curtains closed. “It might not be as bad as it looks now, John. There’s usually a normal explanation, and most kids turn up, one way or another. Two weeks ago, there was a little boy named Edgar, whatever. Two and a half years old.”

“What happened?”

“His parents have been fighting about custody for over a year. His father ends up losing that fight—only gets to see the kid once a month, supervised visits, which I can tell you was for good reasons. Edgar disappears, surprise, surprise. He was found a few days later, alive and well; spontaneous road trip with his dad. Most kidnappings, it’s one of the parents.”

“Is that what you think is happening here?” John asked skeptically.

“No.” Clay didn’t take long to answer. “No, I don’t,” he repeated, sounding graver.

He took a deep breath and leaned forward. “And it doesn’t help that the whole town’s obsessed with this new restaurant, dressing up like clowns—it’s a waste of time for my officers to be doing crowd control, or clown control, as it were.”

“Can I do anything?” John asked, though he couldn’t imagine what kind of help he could be.

“Not a thing,” Clay said. “If I’m right, I may need you. And I’ll need—” He stopped.

“Charlie,” John said. “You’ll need Charlie.”

Clay nodded. “It’s not fair to ask that of her,” Clay said. “Not after everything she’s been through. But I will if I have to.”

“Yeah,” John said. Clay was staring at the space between them again, and John felt suddenly like he was intruding. “It’s getting late,” he said.

“Yeah, well, watch yourself out there,” Clay said, hastily standing. “Do you want to take my gun?” Clay said lightly. He smiled, but there was tension in his face, as though he were half hoping John would take it.

“Don’t need it.” John grinned. “I’ve got these guns.” He held a tight fist in the air and threatened the room before letting himself out.

“Okay, tough guy, see you soon,” Clay said grimly.

*  *  *