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he left, promised to look into things and come back tomorrow.
    I sat there alone in the living room, the first time I've been alone in our house in sixteen days. It felt crowded yet empty all at once. Now I know what they mean by the term: silence is deafening.
    Our house, always so filled with noise and love. Your music, your godawful caterwauling when the spirit moved you—you're the only songwriter I've heard of who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket—Josh's running feet, the dryer clanking off balance, Josh's laughter, your laughter, there was none of that.
    Just the creaking of frogs outside and the groans and hums of an old, empty house.
    I sat there awhile, not sure what I was feeling. But it was something.
    I even ate some chicken the Colonel's wife brought last night. For the first time in weeks, I could actually taste it.
    I took a shower and then a long, hot bath. It's not even five yet, but I feel so very tired. I borrowed one of your T-shirts to wear to bed. One from the dirty laundry, the better to smell you, to be with you tonight. I had to empty the hamper of yours and Josh's clothes and hide them in a bag under my bed before the Colonel's wife did the laundry and sanitized you out of existence.
    I'm going to sleep now, but I'll leave the window open and the light on for you. Kiss Josh for me. Goodnight my loves....

CHAPTER 7
    Wednesday, June 19, 2007: Hopewell, New York
     
    Sarah had organized her plan of attack more carefully than a general facing a superior opposition. She promised herself she'd give this everything she had—devote her entire summer to finding Sam and Josh if need be.
    And then...She paused as her fingers danced over her freshly copied satellite imagery maps of Snakehead Mountain. If she found them, well maybe then, maybe finally, she could say goodbye.
    She kept her campaign headquarters hidden in Sam's office. It was a bright and cheery room in the rear of the house, with its own entrance, although to be honest, Sam had written more music here than insurance policies. She'd never understood why he'd come to Hopewell to set up his independent insurance agency, but he made a steady if modest income. She taped her topo maps and satellite images over posters of his heroes: John Lee Hooker, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton.
    A cough at the door interrupted her. She looked up to see Hal standing in the hallway, a small Motorola in his hand. "I knocked—"
    "Sorry, I was running the copy machine. Thanks for bringing the radio by."
    "No problem." He joined her at the drafting table Sam had used as a desk. Leaning forward, he examined the topo map she'd laid out. Neon orange highlighted the areas on the map where Sam's blood was found, the spot half a mile away where Josh's Tigger was abandoned, the areas searched two years ago. A breathy whistle escaped him. "Helluva lot of territory to cover. With no guarantees. These mountains don't give up their secrets easily."
    She stood beside him, her hand clenching and unclenching as she stared at the vast wilderness depicted on the map. "I know."
    "I just don't want you to be getting your hopes up. Again." Silence. They both knew how Sarah had spent last summer. Down in Texas, living out of a Huntsville motel room while Alan tried unsuccessfully to get her an audience with Damian Wright. Then, once she'd come home…
    Hal seemed to follow her thoughts effortlessly. Why not? He knew better than anyone what she was going through. He was still beating himself up for not being there the night his wife died. He tilted his head, met her gaze. "Sure you know what you're doing, Sarah? Sometimes it's best to leave well enough alone."
    "I need to do this, Hal." She forced herself to smile, patted his arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'm not about to go off the deep end again. That's behind me."
    "Some things you never put behind you," he said in a low tone, his hand covering hers. "Some things you just learn how to live with." He paused. "You need to