Rountree stood with her back to me. If she intended to make me more nervous, and I think she did, it worked.

When a sufficient amount of time had passed, she turned and faced me. “Is your wife home, Mr. Francis?”

“No, she isn’t. She went to her parents’ house to pick up our son. Is something wrong?”

I caught a slight whiff of cigarette smoke in the air between us. I’d never noticed it on Rountree before, but maybe the stress of the past day had driven her to steal a few puffs in her car.

“Is she coming back soon?”

I replayed Amanda’s somewhat odd response about how long she’d be gone. But I told myself it was nothing.

“Probably. Can you tell me what this is about? Why are you asking about Amanda?”

Rountree thought about it for a moment, and then nodded to herself as if she’d reached a conclusion inside her head. “I’m trying to tie up some loose ends and questions from our investigation. I thought Amanda might be able to shed some light on a few things.”

“Amanda? Can’t you just ask me?”

“Can you call her and see when she’s heading back?” Rountree asked, her voice casual, making the request seem as simple as asking for a glass of water.

“I can. So you’re not going to tell me what this is about?”

“If you give me her number, I can call her.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. I went out to the kitchen and unplugged my phone from the wall. I saw more texts, more Facebook messages. None of them from Amanda.

I dialed her number, and as it rang, I walked back to the living room. “I’m tired of this cloak-and-dagger stuff. Can’t you just tell us what’s happening?”

Rountree ignored me. She stood in the center of the room with her hands clasped behind her back, tapping her right foot in time to a rhythm only she heard.

The call went to voice mail. I heard Amanda’s peppy greeting asking me to leave a message. Which I did, asking her to call me as soon as she could.

“She’s probably dealing with Henry. Or she’s driving. She never answers when she’s driving. She wouldn’t answer while driving even before we had Henry.”

“Won’t she put it on speaker?”

“She won’t. Not if he’s in the car. She doesn’t want any distractions. You know her sister—”

“I know. Can you try again? Just to be sure.”

Her tone left little choice. And I didn’t think I could refuse a cop. So I tried once more, receiving the same result. Voice mail. I skipped leaving a message.

“She’ll probably be here in five minutes.”

“Do you have your in-laws’ number?”

“Yes, it’s programmed in my phone.”