“Why would he ask which girl lived in the house?” Will wants to know. “If he was a family acquaintance, he wouldn’t be confused about that.”

“Maybe,” I allow. “Or maybe he is a stranger. A sociopath who says whatever occurs to him in the moment.” This is where my mind is headed, though it’s a long shot. Only one percent of the time does a missing child involve a full-on predator, true, but the usual markers for family drama don’t seem to be obvious here. Also, the details we do have, like the silk hood and ligatures, feel too specific to be props.

If the guy who took Polly really was paid off, as Rod is suggesting, he wouldn’t have taken any more risks than necessary. He’d have waited until much later at night. He’d have thoroughly scoped out the place to make sure the family was asleep first, and that Polly was alone. But another type of guy, with no motivation but the sick story in his head, wouldn’t follow any clock or care about being recognized. Once he’d decided to attack his victim, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Risk wouldn’t matter. Nothing would, just the girl.

“Can you walk us through the rest?” I ask Rod. “What happened next?”

“He ties them all up using the ligatures he brought, plus cord he’s cut from the Nintendo game. The whole time, though, he’s telling them he’s not really going to hurt them.”

“Sick bastard,” Will mutters, and I have to agree.

“He gags them all,” Rod goes on, “puts hoods over their heads, and tells the other two girls to start counting. Then he carries Polly away. The girls hear the front screen door creak and know he’s gone. It takes them a few minutes to wrestle free of the bindings and wake Eve. Then she calls 911.”

“What’s the tape like?” Will asks. “Anything unusual?”

“Not really. Mom’s a little groggy and confused, as if she can’t quite believe this is happening. The call goes on and she starts to crack. To break down.”

I feel a tingling of unease as the story he’s telling veers too close to mine. Eve’s grief and mine blurring, colliding. “Have you heard about Cameron Curtis?” I ask Rod, deliberately changing course.

“The actress’s kid?”

“That’s right. Fifteen-year-old girl disappears from her own house sometime after ten p.m. a little over a week ago. No sign of forced entry, no leads, no obvious motive, no reason to think she ran. Just poof.”

Rod turns to me, thumbing the rim of the coffee cup in his hand. “What are you thinking for this, Anna? Any reason to believe it could be the same guy?”