“You know what struck me most when we walked through the house?” D.D. said abruptly. “It was how … ‘just right’ everything felt. Not too dirty, not too clean. Not too cluttered, not too organized. Everything was absolutely, positively balanced. Like the principal said, Sandra Jones socialized enough for people to like her, without socializing so much that her fellow teachers might actually know her. Jason and Sandra smiled at their neighbors, but never actually entertained them. They wave, but don’t talk. They get out, but never invite anyone in. Everything is carefully modulated. It’s a balancing act. Except nature isn’t balanced.”

“You think their life is manufactured?”

She shrugged. “I think real life is messy, and these guys aren’t messy enough.”

Miller hesitated. “We haven’t checked in with Jason’s employer yet….”

D.D. winced. Which would be the Boston Daily, a major media outlet. “Yeah, I understand.”

“I’m thinking of having one of my gals call in. Claim she’s doing a background check for security clearance, something like that. Somehow, it’s less suspicious if you have a female make the call.”

“Good idea.”

“And we’ll follow up with the daughter’s preschool. See what the teachers and staff have to say. Don’t little girls travel in packs, have little friends, attend sleepovers? Seems to me there’s gotta be some parents somewhere who know more about the family.”

“Works for me.”

“Finally, I got a copy of the marriage certificate faxed over. Now that I have Sandra’s maiden name, I’ll start tracking down the father, get more info out of Georgia.”

“All right. I’m assuming there’s still no sign of Sandra nor activity on her credit card?”

“Nope. Local establishments haven’t seen her. Local hospitals and walk-in clinics have no unidentified women. Morgue has no unidentified females. Credit card was last used two days ago at the grocery store. ATM card has no hits. Closest thing we have to activity is half a dozen calls on her cell phone. One call from the husband at two-sixteen A.M.—probably when he figured out his wife’s phone was ringing right behind him on the kitchen counter. Then a couple of calls from the school principal this morning trying to track her down, as well as three other calls from students. That’s been it.”

“She received calls from her sixth grade students?”

“Placed from their own cell phones, of course. Welcome to the brave new world of grown-up twelve-year-olds.”

“I’m so glad I don’t even have a plant.”

Miller grunted. “I have three boys—seven, nine, and eleven. I plan on working overtime for the next ten years.”

She couldn’t blame him. “So you’ll track financials, cell phones, and grown-up twelve-year-olds. I’ll go to work on searching the truck and lining up a forensic interviewer.”