Doyle walked into the office and closed the door, and the man behind the desk stood. Doyle knew Navarro was the school counselor. He was tall and thin with a quiet soul and dark, shadowed eyes that didn’t miss much. He’d been military years ago and limped from an old war injury, but he didn’t talk about those days. That was fine with Doyle. Neither did he. Navarro held out his hand and smiled. “Sheriff.”

They sat across from each other. Doyle in a hard curved chair on a metal frame and Navarro in a fake leather one at the desk. Light gleamed from the window, where icicles hung. A big motivational poster was pinned on the wall. It read: YOU RUN OUT OF CHANCES ONLY WHEN YOU STOP TAKING THEM. Navarro clasped his hands on the desktop. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“I’m lookin’ for Jack Dahl.”

“He in law trouble of some kind?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Have you tried his house?”

“Yes, I have. What can you tell me about the boy?”

Navarro picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. “He’s got a younger brother. Matthew, I think. You checked the brother’s school?”

“My deputy did. Nobody’s seen him.”

“And the mom?”

“Not hide nor hair of her, neither.”

Navarro’s smile faded. He studied Doyle. “You think he took off.”

“I believe this boy’s done flown the coop.”

“You think he’s got himself into some sort of danger. Don’t you?”

“Yes. I do.”

A fan kicked on somewhere. Papers on a bookshelf fluttered. Navarro looked out the window and let the pencil hang in his hand. “I tried to bring him in a couple years ago, but he wouldn’t talk to me. He didn’t give me any cause to drag him in either. Keeps himself out of trouble. DCFS dropped by, and I knew it was going south with the mom.”

“Who are his friends?”

“I don’t know of any. I don’t believe he permits such things.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Navarro shrugged. “He’s a loner. Careful.”

“I need to find him.”

“Well. Then you’ve got a problem.”

“Why do you say that?”

Navarro glanced from the window to Doyle. “I just mean he’s smart.”

“Oh?”

“On paper he’s a mess—Cs and Ds across the board. But his test scores? His SAT was 1390. As a sophomore.”

“I guess that means a lot, by the way you say it.”

“If Jack Dahl don’t want to be found, odds are good you won’t find him.”

Doyle tipped his head slightly. “I don’t know. I’m pretty good at findin’ things.”

“I hope you are.”

Doyle studied Navarro. His face, the shallowness of his breath. The smallest quiver of his hands. “You like him, don’t you?”

Navarro blinked. “What makes you say that?”