Ben and I drive to Colin’s last known address. He’s been sharing a small two-bedroom house with a quick-tempered ex-marine, who spends a suspicious amount of time in Florida and hasn’t seen Colin in over a month. From what he told Ben, the pair were rarely in the house at the same time, and if they were, Colin kept to his room. The guy couldn’t even remember what Colin looked like. He’s out of state again and wasn’t pleased about us entering the residence until Ben started hinting at investigating the numerous Florida trips.

It’s a short drive. We’re both quiet. And I wonder if Ben’s remembering the first case we worked together—the one with the missing woman. In the end, we found her in a motel room two miles outside Athens. She had a television cable wrapped around her neck and had been dead for three days. Her death was ruled a suicide despite the defensive wounds on her hands. And although the front desk attendant initially identified the man who accompanied her to the motel as a married local district commissioner, he later claimed that she had arrived alone, that she appeared distraught, and that he wasn’t surprised that she hung herself. No charges were made, and for a long time after, I couldn’t look anyone from Missing Persons in the eye.

The road dips and narrows, and I watch the couple behind us in the rearview mirror. Mr. Haines’s mouth moves in short erratic bursts. Florence’s face is marbled with reflections of the sky on the glass, but her shoulders are set in a rigid line, steeling herself for whatever we find.

We turn down a straight, barely paved street with houses close together on either side. Ben takes the bumps in the road slow, and we pass a man sitting in a rusty pickup. His arm hangs out the window, skinny like a tree branch in winter, so pale and corpse-like I have to do a double take. But the engine’s running, and I see white puffs emanating from the tailpipe. I eye Ben, and he shrugs.

Despite the uneasy sensation creeping up my spine, it’s turned into a beautiful day. The sun has emerged and draws patterns of light across the cracked pavement. Birds flutter in between the leafless branches.

Still, as we pull up in front of the address listed on Ben’s notes, I shiver with anticipation. The overgrown bushes that hide the windows, the NO TRESPASSING sign on the front door, the broken glass beneath the security light—all speak of residents who prefer to be left alone, and maybe something more troubling.