The town was overwhelmed. Media people with news cameras crisscrossing the road, police working here and there, locals gawking from behind the yellow crime-scene tape—all of it underscored the sobering aspects of the New York woman’s disappearance.

A state trooper stood in the middle of the road waving Devlin through.

He continued driving north, but at the edge of town several VSP vehicles, their emergency lights flashing, had formed a roadblock. They were checking traffic in both directions, forcing him to stop. A male trooper and a female detective with a clipboard requested his license and registration.

Devlin provided them.

“Mr. Foxe, we’re investigating the disappearance of Samantha Victoria Moore of Queens, New York, who went missing from the Green Rolling Hills Inn,” the detective said.

“Yes, I see that. It’s been all over the news.”

“Where are you coming from, where are you headed, and why?” She scrutinized the interior of his car after returning his documents.

“I’m a real estate agent based in Montpelier, and I manage property in the region for clients. I’m here on routine business.”

“Sir, would you consent to opening the back of your vehicle and letting us have a look?”

Devlin hesitated, smiled, and reached for the release button. The tailgate popped open, and the male trooper looked inside.

“Do you make regular trips this way, sir?” the female detective asked.

“Once a month at best, give or take.”

“Did you pass by the motel between the hours of midnight and two a.m. on the morning of the seventh?” the detective asked. She nodded to the trooper, who shook his head and shut the tailgate.

“No. I was in New Hampshire.”

She looked at him for a moment, then tugged a flyer from her clipboard and gave it to him. Devlin met the eyes of Samantha Moore in her photo, under the word MISSING, and scanned the information concerning her disappearance.

“Please read the details. If anything related to this case comes to mind, you be sure to give us a call. Anything at all, sir.”

“I will.”

Devlin folded the sheet, then slid it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

“Thank you,” the detective said, waving him through.

Devlin welcomed a measure of relief at how smoothly that had gone, considering all the circumstances.

Maybe I’m overthinking this, worrying for nothing.

Soon the town was long behind him as he traveled along the paved road that twisted north through the dark, dense forests, before it became a rough gravel road. He passed the solitary gas station that had been turned into an impromptu search command center. More emergency vehicles were clustered there, along with dog teams and other searchers.

Devlin’s stomach tensed.

He hadn’t gone far when he encountered another police check and the same questions before he was allowed through.