“Stephen?”

“The Finny Jeremy was talking about. Stephen Finn. He only worked half time in Reception, but the residents get very attached. They don’t like change.”

“He’s the one who screwed up the day Jeremy went missing?”

Marlene shook her head, not to indicate “no,” but in a kind of an agitated spasm. “He was there when Jeremy’s sister checked him out. And then somehow managed to clock off without logging it.”

“Did you ever find out what happened? I mean, how the mistake came about?”

Marlene shook her head again. “It was unforgivable. Checking residents in and out was eighty percent of Stephen’s job. We had no choice but to let him go.” Marlene, to my fascination, was almost scowling — it was the first time she had ever really dropped her PR mask with me. The welcoming and agreeable persona that made her so good at her job slipped in that moment, just enough to show me how completely fucking furious she was at this idiot who had nearly brought the whole place crashing down around her ears.

“It was my own fault,” Marlene muttered.

“No, no,” I said. “You can’t blame yourself.”

“I was never crazy about him,” she confessed, glancing at me. “But he had a reference from Barnbarroch Manor — so. I don’t know if you know that facility — it’s swanky.”

“I do know Barnbarroch,” I said after a moment.

And I knew Finny.

The moment we were seated with our Americanos, Jessica hauled out the tablet she carried around everywhere for calling up real estate listings. I thought for a second we were about to dive right back into the condo hunt — maybe as a way of avoiding the elephant in the room that was the recollection of my open palm whomping her across the face — but instead, when I leaned over, I saw that she had typed the name of Stephen Finn into her browser’s search bar. Several photos of a soap-star-handsome cricket player popped up, his toothy smile multiplied across the page.

“He’s a residential care worker,” I said. “I don’t know how much of an online presence he would have.”

Jessica went back to the search bar and added the name of the city we were in. She had a miniature keyboard for her tablet and hunched over it, tapping away. She hadn’t said much since we sat down.

“What are you looking for, exactly?” I asked.

“I want to see what this guy looks like,” said Jessica.

I’d started relaying the story of Stephen Finn almost the moment I climbed into Jessica’s car, figuring it would make for the ideal icebreaker, which I felt we were in need of. Also because I was still mulling over the weird coincidence of what I’d learned from Marlene — how this person I’d encountered during the pointless field trip with Trevor out to Barnbarroch should be the person whose incompetence had almost derailed my sister’s Gorsebrook adventure.

“I met him,” I reminded her. She raised her eyes from the screen.