“No problem. Why don’t I put you down for four and I’ll ask you the day after tomorrow if you want to extend. That way you’ll be sure to have a room. What do you think?”

I sighed. “Sounds great.”

“Perfect. It’s seventy-nine a night, which includes breakfast, served from six thirty until ten in the dining room through there.” She pointed to the doors. “I’m Fiona. Ask for me if you need anything.” She took my information and credit card, and handed me a key, which was attached to another piece of polished wood like the ones on the mobile, except instead of an inspiring word engraved in it, it was the number 12. I thanked Fiona, and once she’d given me directions, parked my car around the left side of the L-shaped building.

My room was small, but fresh and clean, with soft gray walls and a queen-size bed, which had two thick pillows on either side. More black-and-white photographs hung on the walls, as dramatic as those at reception, and a large flat-screen TV covered most of the opposite side.

While I was exhausted from getting up early, traveling and the day’s events, there was no way I could rest. I grabbed my phone, and after trying to talk myself out of it for fear of what I might find, ran a search for Asher Bennett, Newdale.

It quickly became clear he didn’t have a social media profile I could work my way through, and I reframed the parameters. There was a small article about an Asher Bennett winning a high-school wrestling championship, but it was years ago and didn’t have any photos, so I couldn’t be sure it was him. A few swipes later an obituary for Brad Bennett caught my eye, and I skimmed through the piece. Brad had died in a freak workplace accident, and was survived by his son, Asher, and his stepdaughter, Maya Scott. This was definitely my Jack, but while he’d told me his father’s name, he’d said Brad had died in a car crash. As I sat there staring at my phone, I realized if Heron and Stevens had followed up on the information I’d given them about Jack Smith living in Maine, it would surely have been near impossible to put things together and identify him as Asher Bennett. What had made him lie about his father’s death, never mention Maya or his stepmother, and give himself a fake name? What had happened to him? I shuddered. Maybe the real question was: What did he do?