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“Ellen,” Mom said, correcting her. “So are you and Mickey a thing now? What do the kids say? Dating? Hooking up?”

Mickey was mortified. “Grandma!”

“Oh, never mind, Ema, his reaction tells me all. Isn’t it cute when they turn red?”

Ema, who looked equally mortified, shuffled her way into the kitchen. Dad said, “I better stay with them. Just in case.”

He left Myron and Mickey alone in the den.

“I got your text,” Mickey said.

“I figured. Do you think you can help?”

“I do. I think Ema can help too.”

“How?”

“We have a plan,” Mickey said.

T
he press was gone
from Nancy Moore’s house.

Myron didn’t know if that came from a media decision to respect the family’s request for privacy or from news cycles being so short or from the fact that there was no new kindling for the coverage fire. Probably a combination of all three, but either way, Myron was grateful. It was eight
P.M.
when he pulled into the driveway and knocked on the door.

Nancy Moore opened the door with a glass of white wine in her hand. “It’s late,” she said.

“Sorry,” Myron said. “I would have called.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t have even opened the door except . . .”

He knew. She still felt obligated. “Look, I need to talk to you for just a few moments.” Myron looked past her into the house. “Is Hunter here?”

“No. He drove back to Pennsylvania tonight.”

“That’s where he lives?”

She nodded. “He’s been there since the divorce.”

Myron looked at the
FOR SALE
sign. “You’re moving too?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Same.”

“Pennsylvania?”

“I don’t want to be rude here, Myron.”

He held up a hand. “Can I just come in for a moment?”

She grudgingly moved out of the way. Myron stepped inside and pulled up when he saw the young woman standing by the foot of the steps.

“This is my daughter, Francesca,” Nancy said.

Myron almost made the standard “you mean sister” line, but he bit back the flattery. He hadn’t really noticed the strong resemblance during the TV interview, but he had been otherwise distracted. If a potential spouse wanted to know what Francesca would look like in twenty-five years, Nancy left very little to the imagination.

“Francesca, this is Mr. Bolitar.”

“Call me Myron,” Myron said. “Hi, Francesca.”

She blinked away tears. Had the tears been there before?

“Thank you,” she said with sincerity that almost made him turn away. Francesca hurried over to Myron. She gave him a brief albeit fierce hug. “Thank you,” she said again.

“You’re welcome,” Myron said.

Nancy rubbed her daughter’s shoulder and gave her a gentle smile. “Do you mind going upstairs and checking on your brother? Mr. Bolitar and I need to talk.”

“Sure,” Francesca said. She took Myron’s hand in both of hers. “It was really nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Nancy watched her head up the stairs. She waited until she was out of sight before she said, “She’s a good kid.”

“She seems it.”

“Very sensitive. Cries at the smallest thing.”

“I think that’s a good quality,” Myron said.

“I guess. But when her brother disappeared . . .” Nancy didn’t finish the thought. She shook her head and closed her eyes. “If Patrick had died in that tunnel, if you hadn’t gotten to him in time . . .” Again there was no need to finish the thought.

“Can I ask you something straight out?” Myron asked.

“I guess.”

“Are you positive that the boy upstairs is Patrick?”

She made a face. “You asked me that before.”

“I know.”

“So why do you keep asking me that? I already told you. I’m certain.”

“How can you be?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s been ten years. He was a little boy when he was taken.”

She put her hands on her hips. There was a hint of impatience in her tone now. “This is why you’re here?”

“No.”

“Then you better get to it. It’s getting late.”

“Tell me about your texts with Chick Baldwin.”

Myron said it just like that. Boom. No warning, no clearing of his throat, nothing. He wanted to see her reaction, but if he expected something dramatic or revealing, that wasn’t happening. Nancy put down the wineglass and folded her arms.

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“Why on earth . . . ?” She stopped herself. “I think you should leave.”

“I spoke to Chick about it.”

“Then you know already.”

“Know what?”

“It was nothing.”

Interesting. The same argument. Myron decided to do a little bluffing. “That’s not what he said.”

“Pardon?”

“Chick admitted you two were having an affair.”

A small smile came to her lips. “You’re full of shit, Myron.”

And so he was.

“We were friends,” Nancy said. “We talked. We talked a lot.”

“Yeah, Nancy, no offense, but I’m not buying that.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t, no.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, Chick doesn’t hit me as a great talker.”

“But he does hit you as being a great lay?”

Touché
, Myron thought.

Nancy moved close to him. She looked up at him with the eyes of a doe. It was, he imagined, a move she’d made before to get a
point across to a man. It was, he imagined, a move that had served her well in the past.

“Will you trust me that it has nothing to do with what happened to the boys?”

“No,” Myron said.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“You think I’m lying?”

“Maybe,” Myron said. “Or maybe you don’t know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Things ripple. Things wiggle beneath the surface. You can’t always see them, especially when you’re as close to it as you are. You know about the butterfly effect, the concept that a butterfly flapping its wings may seem inconsequential—”

“But can change everything,” Nancy finished for him. “I know it. It’s nonsense. And anyway—”

She stopped when she heard the clumping footsteps. They both turned toward the stairs. There, stopping on the third step from the bottom, was Patrick Moore. Or maybe–Patrick Moore. Either way, it was the boy Fat Gandhi had stabbed in the tunnel.

Myron surreptitiously hit a button on his mobile phone.

For a moment, no one spoke. Nancy broke the silence.

“Is everything okay, Patrick? Can I get you something?”

Patrick had his eyes on Myron.

“Hi, Patrick,” Myron said.

“You’re the guy who saved me,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Francesca said you were here.” He swallowed hard. “That fat guy. He tried to kill me.”

Myron glanced at Nancy.

“It’s okay,” Nancy said in the soothing, unmistakable tone of a worried mother. “You’re home now. You’re safe.”

Patrick still had his eyes on Myron. “Why?” he asked. “Why did he stab me?”

It was a common enough question after a violent crime. Myron had seen it before—this need to know. It was an unselfish “Why me?” Rape victims often wonder why they were chosen. So do victims of any crime.

“I think,” Myron said, “he was trying to save himself.”

“How?”

“He figured that if he stabbed you, I’d stop chasing him. I’d have to choose between going after him and saving you.”

Patrick nodded, seeing it now. “Right. I guess that makes sense.”

Myron took a tentative step toward the boy. “Patrick,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and as nonthreatening as possible, “where have you been?”

Patrick’s eyes widened. He looked toward his mother with panic on his face.

That was when the doorbell rang.

Nancy turned toward it. “Who could that—”

“I got it,” Myron said. “Hold on a second, Patrick. I have someone I want you to meet.”

Myron moved to the front door and opened it. Mickey and Ema, who had been waiting in a separate car for Myron’s phone signal, came in with no hesitation. Mickey had a big smile on his face. Ema was carrying a pizza. The aroma filled the room.

It was a long shot, Myron knew, this plan of Mickey’s, but Ema had been more optimistic.

“He’s a lonely teen locked in his house,” Ema explained, “and more than that, pizza in London is pretty basic.”

So this was really Mickey and Ema’s play. Myron let him take over.

Mickey started toward the steps. “Hey, I’m Mickey. This is Ema. We figured you might want to hang out or something.”

Patrick looked at him. “Umm.”

Ema said, “Have you tried pizza with buffalo chicken as a topping?”

Patrick’s voice was tentative. “No.”

Ema nodded. “And bacon bits.”

“Seriously?”

“I would never kid about bacon.”

“Whoa.”

“We were going to save the cheese-filled crust as a surprise,” Mickey said, “but some things are too good to keep secret.”

Patrick smiled.

“I don’t want to build it up,” Ema said, opening the box, “but this may be the greatest thing ever.”

Nancy said, “Oh, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Myron stepped between her and her son. “You said he needed to get acclimated to people his own age,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but we’ve had a long day—”

Patrick interrupted her. “Mom,” he said, “it’s okay.”

“I think it might be gluten-free,” Ema tried. Her face broke out in the brightest, goofiest, most endearing grin Myron had ever seen.

Then Patrick laughed—genuinely laughed—and from the look on Nancy’s face, Myron guessed that it was the first time she’d
seen her child laugh since he was six years old. Ema had been right. Whether it was overgarnished pizza or the normal human need for companionship—most likely a combo of both—Patrick needed this. He’d been deprived too long.

Francesca appeared at the top of the steps. “We were just about to start a movie,” she said. “Mom, is it okay if we rent something on demand?”

All eyes turned to Nancy Moore.

“Of course,” Nancy Moore managed, her voice choking up. “Go have fun.”

*   *   *

Myron didn’t stay.

Those had been the explicit instructions handed down from Mickey and Ema. Leave it to them. Don’t hang out downstairs. Don’t cloud the atmosphere with your adult presence. Don’t make anyone wary. If you have questions for Patrick’s mom, ask them before they get inside. Then leave.

So he did.

The phone rang as he got into his car. Myron didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“This is Alyse Mervosh,” a woman said with no preamble. “I’m PT’s contact.”

“The forensic doctor?”

“Forensic anthropologist specializing in forensic facial reconstruction, yes.” Her tone was as neutral as you could get without electronic altering. “You want to know if the Patrick Moore who appeared today on CNN is the same Patrick Moore who vanished ten years ago. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I just obtained the video of today’s interview. I then Googled the kidnapping to secure photographs of Patrick, age six. Finally, I located an age progression of Patrick that was performed by this agency. Where are you?”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Alpine, New Jersey.”

“Do you know where our office in Manhattan is located?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“The drive should take you approximately an hour. I should have my results by then.”

Alyse Mervosh hung up without waiting for his reply. Myron checked the clock. Eight thirty
P.M.
If Dr. Mervosh didn’t mind working late, neither did Myron. He knew the FBI’s main laboratory was down in Virginia, but he suspected that this kind of work mostly required computers and perhaps software. In Manhattan, the FBI’s main office was on the twenty-third floor at 26 Federal Plaza.

Myron found a parking lot on Reade Street and started walking north toward FBI headquarters. He passed Duane Street and recalled a fun factoid. Duane Reade pharmacies, which dominated New York, had derived its name from its first warehouse being located between Duane Street and Reade Street.

Odd thoughts go through your head at random times.

Alyse Mervosh greeted him with a firm handshake. “Can I just get this out of the way?” she said.

“Get what out of the way?”

“My fangirling? I loved, loved, loved the documentary on your injury. Loved it.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Seriously, to be that high, that close to the pinnacle, and then to be destroyed like that, to be left in a heap with nothing . . .”

Her voice trailed off.

Myron opened his arms and smiled. “Yet here I am.”

“But are you really okay?” she asked.

“I can do ten one-handed push-ups if you’d like.”

“Really?”

“No. I can maybe do one.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m being unprofessional. It’s just . . . that documentary really made me pity you, you know?”

“Just the feeling I was hoping for.”

She turned a little red. “Pardon the way I’m dressed. I was in the middle of a tennis lesson when PT called.”

Dr. Mervosh wore a sweat suit so old-school that Myron almost looked for the Fila label. Her hair was blond and she wore a headband. The whole look was Early Eighties Björn Borg.

“No worries,” Myron said. “Thanks for doing this so late.”

“Do you want a long explanation or do you want my conclusion?”

“Conclusion, please.”

“Inconclusive,” she said.

“Oh,” Myron said. “So your conclusion is, what, you just don’t know?”

“In terms of answering the question, ‘Is the teenager interviewed today on CNN the same Patrick Moore who was abducted ten years ago?’ sorry, I can’t be firm. Can I explain?”

“Please do.”

“What I mostly do—forensic facial reconstruction—is about identifying remains. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t an exact science. Our hope is that our work may lead to a tip or a thought, but a lot of things can skew our results.” Alyse Mervosh made a face. “Is it hot in here?”

“A little.”

“Do you mind if I take off the jacket?”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m flirting with you or anything.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I have a serious boyfriend.”

“And I’m engaged.”

“Really?” Her face brightened. “Oh, I’m so happy for you. I mean, after what you went through.”

“Dr. Mervosh?”

“Please call me Alyse.”

“Alyse,” Myron said. “It was just a hurt knee. I appreciate your”—he wasn’t sure of the word—“concern, but I’m fine.”

“And you want to know more about Patrick Moore.”

“I do, yes.”