“It’s not that simple. People are going to offer you information that makes it seem like they’re on your side. And Owen’s side. They aren’t. They aren’t on anyone’s side but their own.”

“People like you?” I say.

“Exactly,” he says. “But I did make a phone call for you this morning to Thomas Shelton. He’s an old buddy of mine who works on family law for the state of California. I just wanted to make sure you’re protected in case someone comes out of the woodwork seeking temporary custody of Bailey during all of this. Thomas will pull some strings to make sure that temporary custody is granted to you.”

I let out a deep breath, unable to hide my relief. It has occurred to me that, if this goes on for too much longer, losing custody of Bailey is a possibility. She has no other family to speak of—her grandparents deceased, no close relatives. But we aren’t blood relatives. I haven’t adopted her. Couldn’t the state take her away at any time? At least until they determine where her one legal guardian is, and why he has left his kid behind?

“He has the authority to do that?” I say.

“He does. And he will.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Because I asked him to,” he says.

“Why would you do that for us?” I ask.

“So you’d trust me when I tell you the best thing you can do for Owen is lie low and get a lawyer,” he says. “Do you know one?”

I think of the one lawyer I know in town. I think of how little I want to talk to him, especially now.

“Unfortunately,” I say.

“Call him. Or her.”

“Him,” I say.

“Fine, call him. And lie low.”

“Do you want to say it again?” I ask.

“Nah, I’ve said it enough.”

Then something in his face changes, a smile breaking through. Investigator mode apparently behind us.

“Owen hasn’t used a credit card, not a check, nothing for twenty-four hours. And he won’t. He’s too smart, so you can stop calling his phone because I’m sure he dumped it.”

“So why did you keep asking if he called?”

“There are other phones he could have used,” he says. “Burner phones. Phones that aren’t readily traceable.”

Burner phones, paper trails. Why is Grady trying to make Owen sound like a criminal mastermind?

I start to ask him, but he presses a button on his key chain, a car across the street shining its lights, coming to life.

“I won’t keep you longer, you have enough to deal with,” he says. “But when you do hear from Owen, tell him I can help him if he lets me.”