“Oh, of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.” The barmaid comes back with my order and I lift my beer glass to Will in a small mock toast. “I can’t believe you’re still here. You had so many big ideas.”

“Did I?” He makes a face. “Where was I supposed to go?”

“A thousand places. Anywhere.”

“Out of the old man’s shadow, you mean?”

“Maybe. I think about him sometimes. Those impressions he did. Bugs Bunny.”

“Yeah. He worked hard on that stuff. He’d practice for hours. He can be a son of a bitch in other ways, but he’s funny.”

“He’s still around, then?”

“In a nursing home up in Fort Bragg.” Will tents his fingers over his coffee cup, fidgeting through obvious discomfort. “Not quite all there, as they say.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He lifts his shoulders toward his ears and then drops them, trying to release something. “He can still make my kids laugh.”

“Kids? That’s great. I’ll bet you’re a good dad.”

“I try.”

“Boy? Girl?”

“One of each, ten and twelve. Both of them too smart for their own good.”

“And your wife, what does she do?”

“Beth. She teaches at the Montessori school up the road. She’s been there a long time. She’s wonderful with those kids.”

“That’s a nice picture.” On instinct, I glance at his left hand. There’s no ring, no indentation where a ring has been, and no tan line, either. Maybe he doesn’t wear one, or maybe there’s another story he’s not telling me.

“What about you?” he goes on. “How long are you staying?”

“Not sure.” I glance away. “Just taking things day by day.”

“Married?”

“I married my work.” It’s a lie with oceans of truth in it.

“I’ve followed your career a bit. Project Lighthouse. You’ve done so well for yourself.”

“Searchlight,” I correct him. “But yeah.”

“All those missing kids, it must be hard. I couldn’t do it.”

You are doing it, I want to say, but that wouldn’t be fair. “How are you holding up?” I ask instead.

He shakes his head, looking weary. “I haven’t slept since I got the call. The family wants answers, but I don’t have any.”

“Has the FBI stepped in?”

“I need evidence of kidnapping for federal attention, and I haven’t got it. No evidence of any kind, actually, and no motive. No witnesses and no crime scene.”

“But you think someone took her.”

“It’s just a feeling, but yeah. I do. There was that girl down near Richmond a few years back. Disappeared from her own front yard.”

“Amber Swartz-Garcia.”

“Similar age, right?”

“She was seven. There’s a world of difference between seven and fifteen. Anyway, that was five years ago.”

“Oh, right.” He sighs. “Sorry. I’m forgetting you’re on vacation.”