“I’m on my way,” Will says, and then rings off facing me, both eyebrows arcing toward the brim of his hat in pure bewilderment.

“Shit,” I say for us both, wishing there were a way to press pause. If I could only step out of the car and into the woods alone, I might be able to think clearly. But Will is still looking at me. “Sometimes there’s a waterfall effect,” I offer. “A kid runs off and no one gives it a thought until someone like Polly Klaas becomes front-page news. Then the family decides it’s time to panic.”

“Maybe that’s it.” Will seems eager to believe me, though I haven’t said much. “I’ll send someone down to talk to the sheriff’s department there. Or I might go myself. I know Denny Rasmussen pretty well.”

“You want me to come along?” I suggest automatically.

“You’ve got enough to do. We’ll meet up later and compare notes.” He starts the engine and I lean back in the passenger seat, relieved to be given a pass.

These last few hours have drained me more than I want to admit, talking to Emily and then Gray, learning of Cameron’s scars, how much she was hit with all at once. Too much for anyone, let alone a fifteen-year-old.

Almost as if he can read my thoughts, Will says, “That poor kid. Can you imagine being raped and not remembering it?”

“No,” I say.

But I can. It happens all the time.

—

On his way to Gualala, fifty miles south, Will drops me in the parking lot of the high school. I let myself into the building, instantly colliding with the past, the teenager I was here, just a moment ago, it seems. The smells of floor polish and hormones are the same, the banged-up rows of lockers and cinder-block walls and greenish fluorescent lights. But was it really this small?

It’s the end of the day, and the building’s almost empty. I find the main office by muscle memory, where an administrative assistant directs me to Steve Gonzales’s English classroom. I catch him putting the chairs back in order and introduce myself.

“Cameron,” he says, and sits down hard, as if I’ve pushed him. Just that, the heavy way he’s said her name, tells me he isn’t going to be anyone of interest in our investigation. Tells me how much he cares about her.

Round shouldered and soft eyed, Gonzales wears wide-wale corduroy slacks and a cheap tan blazer he’s probably put on every other day for years. There are threads of silver in his deeply black hair. He’s been here a long time, I guess, and has seen every type of kid.

“Tell me about her work,” I say. “What kind of student is Cameron?”