He persisted. She was the only reliable witness. She was the only one who knew everything. She was the one who’d heard them talking in the office; she was the one who had talked about Madison with Bobby, who had gauged his reactions, who knew the time line. If she didn’t testify, there was a chance all the men could go free.

In Sherri’s dreams that night, Katie was wearing the ripped jeans, the pink Vans, the charm necklace. Katie was leaving the Target, approaching her car. Sherri woke up just as somebody reached for Katie.

The man from the U.S. Attorney’s office returned the next day at the same time. She poured more lemonade. He sipped and looked at her over the rim of his glass.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I could help more. But I’ve done all that I can do. If I testify, somebody is going to kill me or my daughter.”

That’s when he leaned forward, and he set the glass down, and he looked at her without blinking. He had gray eyes—an unusual color, the color of storm clouds. He said, “I’d like to talk to you about a program that protects witnesses in certain cases.”

Sherri said, “Yes?”

The man said, “It’s unusual for a noncriminal to seek this protection, but it’s not unheard of, and in the case of you and your daughter we think it might be warranted.” Bobby and the others were being tried specifically for Madison Miller’s death, but the other evidence—the trafficking, the money laundering—could eventually implicate others. Bobby’s operation had tentacles, and nobody knew how far they reached. “Have you ever heard,” said the man with the unusual gray eyes, “of the Witness Protection Program?”

“I think so,” she said. “Like in the movies?”

“It’s not an automatic that you and your daughter would be accepted, but in a case like this, where your testimony is crucial, and where others who might be later convicted of criminal activity remain free, we can certainly talk to the right people about it, and see where we are. I think that’s something we should do. Do you agree with that, Mrs. Giordano?” He looked at Sherri intently and also indulgently, like she was a child, and he was offering her an ice cream. Somehow he managed not to blink as he waited for her to answer. He waited a very long time.

Finally: “Yes,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “Yes, please. I’d like to hear more.”