And maybe Hendricks was right—that the secret had only one inevitable ending—but there would still be a modicum of justice if they managed to catch this guy. Not for Bear—there was no justice for the dead, Gibson knew. But perhaps for the living it would restore some sense of balance. No, he didn’t believe that either. There was no redress for a crime of this magnitude. If Bear were dead, then finding her abductor would only serve to answer questions better left unasked. Who had taken her? Where had she been held? How had she suffered and died?

His thoughts began to turn to Ellie, but he forced them away. Under no circumstances would he allow himself to imagine his daughter in Suzanne’s place.

Since blending in wasn’t really an option, Gibson had taken the opposite tack—stick out painfully. He thought the ugly, mismatched sports jacket and tie and rumpled chinos were a nice combination. He looked like someone trying to make a good impression and failing miserably. Gibson had identified the librarian, Margaret Miller, and, through Google-stalking her, had found her son, Todd. Breaking into the library’s office to install his program was an option, but a bad one. Far easier if Mrs. Miller invited him back there.

He looked nothing like Todd, but that was fine. He didn’t need to look like him as much as visually suggest him. In most of his photos, Todd Miller looked like a bit of a dweeb. Gibson’s clothes were an homage to Todd’s total lack of fashion sense. Gibson also parted his hair neatly to one side in the way Todd favored.

He stood just inside the front door of the library, looking around in a panic.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Gibson swung around and gave her his best, neediest look. Take pity on me, it said.

“I sure hope so. Is Mrs. Miller here?”

“I’m Mrs. Miller,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m really sorry. I know this is a weird request. But someone at the gas station suggested I ask you . . .” He let his voice crack.

“Ask what? What is it?”

“Well, I have a job interview in forty-five minutes. Up at the ski resort.”

“Forty-five minutes? Oh, my. You need to hurry.”

“I know, ma’am. I drove up from Hagerstown this morning. It’s for an assistant-manager position. My uncle knows someone up there and put in a good word for me. But, well, I overslept, and I ran out the door without my résumé. It’s right on the kitchen counter,” he said and gestured futilely at the imaginary kitchen counter that had callously kidnapped his résumé. “The resort was real particular too. God, my uncle set up the interview; he’s going to kill me if I blow it.”