“Yes, the July Fourth holiday.” Ben noticed she returned her gaze to the board. He had dragged it up from the basement in an attempt to frame out the details about the disappearances of both Peter Beaumont and Todd Sutton. Embarrassingly, it looked like those time lines he’d seen the TV cops use and he felt like he was playing at being a real police officer, like he’d done when he was a kid when his father would set up a small desk for him beside his own, complete with nonworking phone. He could imagine that, as a Post reporter, Michelle had seen real police work at the First Precinct in DC. Given he had little experience with true crime, he was ashamed by how it looked when people walked into his office and found notes taped to the board. Did he look too eager to finally have a real case?

Yet the reporter seemed engrossed, taking in the information. She was tiny, elf-like, with short brown hair. In heels, she came to Ben’s shoulder. “This is quite helpful,” she said, her head following his scribbles. Since Doyle couldn’t be trusted not to blab key clues on the case, Ben had never included details on the board that needed to be protected. He looked at the time line written in pink chalk—the only color he could find at the supermarket. It made the board look like some sidewalk hopscotch game.

“It’s a strange story for sure.” She turned, pushing up her glasses. Everything about her was neat—even her small handwriting in the notebook that he’d glimpsed.

“And your father was also the chief of police here, is that correct?”

“Yes, he retired in 1993,” said Ben. “He died two years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Talking with her was damned awkward and unnerving. She allowed pauses between sentences and made no attempt to fill up the silences with words.

“Yes, well…” Ben motioned for her to sit. He was already uneasy. He wiped his palms on his pant legs. From the details in his father’s files on Peter Beaumont, the older police officer had taken the disappearance seriously. Whoever had placed Todd’s car in the exact same location either had seen this file or had firsthand knowledge of Peter Beaumont’s case. Given the thick layer of dust that had covered the locked file cabinet, Ben didn’t think that anyone but him had looked through it in years.

“What is your current theory of the case?” Her voice had no inflection. Ben thought she was a real no-bullshit type of reporter, quiet but deadly.