“It is the only copy that I know of,” he says peacefully, following her gaze. “The man who took it died of a heart attack some years ago. The newspaper is small, local, they don’t keep records. So it may be the only copy in existence.” He doesn’t move the envelope away from the water, and Dee forces herself not to reach for it.

“I’ll take a look and be on my way,” she says. “I’ve taken up enough of your day.”

He shakes his head. “You can keep it. Take it with you. You will want a private moment.”

“Thank you,” she says, dazed. “I mean—thank you.”

He says, “I trust that you will not repeat the Oregon incident. You got carried away there. You were lucky to avoid jail.”

Dee winces. Of course, that is the kind of thing he would know about. The man from Oregon, who had been at the lake that day. Tired Karen let slip his details to Dee, the location of his hunting cabin.

Dee has the statistics by heart. The kind of person who took Lulu is an average of twenty-seven years old, unmarried. He is unemployed or works in unskilled labor. He is socially marginal. He is likely to have arrest records for violent crime. The primary motivation for stranger child abduction is— Dee does not allow herself to finish that thought. Over the years, she has acquired the art of making her brain go perfectly blank at will.

In all respects the man from Oregon was a perfect fit. Dee could not have known that he was miles away in Hoquiam with a flat tire when Lulu went. That there were nine witnesses to it. The man did not press charges. But Karen was distant, after that.

“How much is it?” Dee asks, looking into the rich man’s flat blue eyes.

The man watches her watch him. He slowly pours a glass of lemonade with a shaking hand. His frailty is a performance. His forearms are corded with muscle.

“Not money,” he says. “I want something else.”

Her flesh begins to walk on her bones.

“No, no.” He smiles, indulgent. “It’s very simple. You know about my hobby. I collect all sorts of curios. But the meat of the collection, the heart of it, I keep in this house. I want you to look. Walk through it, just once.”

Dee says, “I can pay you. Money.”

“Not enough,” he says gently. “Be reasonable.”

She looks at the view over the trees, at his immaculate clothes, sees his assurance, built with money, and knows that he is right. She doesn’t ask why she should trust him, or how she can be sure that the envelope contains what he says it contains. They are past such things.

She nods because she does not have a choice.