“It’s okay. My cop brain never really takes a vacation. Any reason to suspect the family?”

“Not off the bat. We’re still conducting interviews.”

“I’m assuming you’re following up on registered sex offenders in the area? Checking in on probation and parole? Anyone who might have an affinity for this aged girl, this type of an offense?”

He gives me a funny look. “You really want to talk about this?”

“It’s my only hobby.” I shrug and take a pull from my beer. “Maybe she’s being manipulated, somehow. Or gotten drawn into something dark without knowing it.”

“Like drugs, you mean? She seems clean as a whistle.”

“Could be sex. Someone might be controlling her.”

“The mom’s brother had rape charges thrown at him in college, but that was thirty years ago. Maybe it’s Cameron’s dad?”

“It happens.” As I lean forward, I can’t help but notice the strain around Will’s eyes. He’s desperate for a break, and I feel for him. I know exactly what he’s carrying right now. How heavy it all can be.

“She’s adopted. Maybe that means something?”

He’s thrown out the detail as if it’s just one more thing to consider, but it hits a little too close to home for me. Cameron could be struggling with classic adoption issues, testing her parents’ love by acting out. Or she could have layers of emotional scar tissue, identity or attachment difficulties, boundary issues, or self-destructive tendencies. “Maybe,” I say, working to keep my tone even, “if she’s struggling. But you just said she’s clean as a whistle.”

“I know. Fuck.” He exhales long and loud, then signals the barmaid to bring the check.

“I hope you get a lead soon,” I say.

“Me too.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “I’ll tell you something. I have new appreciation for my dad. The pressure he must have felt back then, when he couldn’t make things right. And the sense of failure.” His sigh carries generations inside of it, the way every shell holds the whole Pacific. “Everyone was waiting for him to make them feel safe again. But he never could.”

He’s talking about Jenny Ford. We’ve both been talking about her without mentioning her name.

“Have you seen Caleb yet?” Will asks suddenly.

“What? Caleb’s here?”

“He came back almost a year ago, after his dad passed on. A stroke. Caleb inherited everything, sold all the paintings, too. That old bastard had millions.”

“He did?” I conjure up Jack Ford, the eccentric hermitlike man I knew, always in the same paint-splotched jeans and flannel shirt, his hair ragged, as if he cut it himself with a kitchen knife. A millionaire? “I never liked him.”

“Me neither. There was something off about that guy. He never remarried, you know.”