A bald head popped up from behind a laptop like a weary Whac-A-Mole.

“The music, Mike! Jesus!” Hendricks yelled.

The conference room went silent, and the bald head stood up. It belonged to Mike Rilling, Abe Consulting’s IT director. In his early thirties, he had the jittery, bloodshot eyes and sallow skin of a man living on a potent cocktail of caffeine and junk food. The stale smell of stress clung to the room.

“Sorry, Mr. Abe. I didn’t think you’d be here until this afternoon.”

“It is this afternoon,” Jenn said.

“Oh,” Mike said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Abe.”

“That’s fine. How is it coming?” Abe asked.

Mike’s mouth opened but closed without answering the question in what Jenn recognized as the international sign for It’s not coming at all, and I wish people would stop asking about it. She’d been there and had some sympathy for him. Mike worked as hard as anyone on the team, but this was not his area of expertise. Not his fault, though overselling his ability had been. That was why Vaughn was here. If it wasn’t already too late.

Ordinarily, this was their main conference room, but it had been converted into a makeshift war room. Photographs, diagrams, maps, and notes were pinned neatly to a series of wheeled bulletin boards arranged along one wall. A photograph of Suzanne Lombard sat at the top of the center bulletin board, her immediate family arrayed below her like an inverted family tree. Vaughn’s eyes went straight to it, and an expression she couldn’t interpret passed over his face.

Arrayed beneath the family, staff members from Lombard’s Senate days, including Duke Vaughn, formed a row of their own. George’s photo was up there too. Completing the gallery, two blank placeholders hung side by side. One was labeled “WR8TH”—the anonymous chat-room handle of the person or persons with whom Suzanne had communicated online prior to her disappearance. The second read “Tom B.” A line connected the pair and a question mark hung between.

Abe took a seat at the head of the table. Hendricks and Vaughn followed suit while Rilling scurried around like a frantic mother hen.

“Michael. Please. Housekeeping can wait,” Abe said.

“Yes, Mr. Abe. Sorry.”

Abe forced himself to chuckle. “And stop apologizing for working hard.”

Jenn appreciated her boss’s effort, but no amount of praise was going to unwind Mike Rilling. She wasn’t convinced a bottle of Xanax and a straitjacket would do the trick. Rilling was overworked, tightly wound, and committed to the belief that he was deeply, tragically underappreciated.

“Michael, this is Gibson Vaughn,” George said. “He’s going to consult on the Lombard case. Gibson, this is Michael Rilling, our IT director.”

Rilling shook Vaughn’s hand limply and shot him a canine territorial look. Gibson either missed it or played it off.