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alone in a person’s room. It helps me absorb their spirit.”
    She sounded all New Agey, like Cassidy. The truth was that she just wanted the parents out of the room in case she found something—like pot or a vibrator—that would upset them.
    They both nodded, Valerie more slowly.
    Nic closed the door. First, she surveyed the room. Everything was so neat. The furniture was dusted, and the clothes were hung on evenly spaced hangers in the walk-in closet, instead of strewn on the floor the way Makayla’s always were. It was so clean that even the trash basket was empty.
    Where another girl might have had a poster of a popular band, Katie had a poster of Condoleezza Rice. The top of a chest of drawers held a framed photograph of herself—complete with braces—shaking hands with President Bush. There was also a mounted wooden gavel. Nic read the brass plate. To Katie Converse, for exemplary leadership in the State of Oregon Mock Legislature.
    She took a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and pulled them on. The chances that this was a crime scene, that someone had been in here with Katie and forced her to go with them—or simply enticed her—were small. But if they didn’t come up with something soon, she would bring in the fingerprint specialists to see if there was anything in the room that didn’t match up.
    Methodically, Nic began to search. She checked the pockets of Katie’s clothes. No Abercrombie & Fitch or American Eagle for this girl, but Nordstrom and Saks. Each pocket was flat and empty. The only surprise in the back of the closet was the hundred shoe boxes in wooden cubbies. The front of each box bore a stapled Polaroid of the contents, ranging from ballet flats to totteringly high heels.
    On the bookshelf were a half dozen teen novels—the kind that looked more serious than racy—and a book of poetry. From it, the green edge of a Post-it peeked out. Nic opened the book.
    The Sick Rose
by William Blake
    O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
    Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
    After reading the poem through twice, Nic closed the book and put it back. Was Katie as virginal as her parents imagined? Or was it Katie herself who had done the imagining?
    A search of the drawers yielded no rolling papers, phone numbers, diaries, loose pills, porn, or hidden cigarette packs. The only thing she noticed was that the panties on top of the underwear drawer were all silky thongs, while those underneath were cotton Jockey briefs. There was nothing taped underneath the drawers. Nic was pushing the last one back into place when she saw the slim white Macintosh laptop sitting under-neath a pile of folders on the desk.
    Her heart started to race. In today’s world, a computer held everything. E-mail, IM log, journal, calendar, shopping lists, even last time on the computer. With the latter, they might be able to nail down the last time Katie was in the house.
    Nic pulled out her cell phone and called the computer forensics lab.
    “Hey, Katie Converse had a laptop. I’m bringing it in.”
    At the lab, the techs would be able to bring up all the laptop’s past history, even if it had been erased. Everything that came across the machine was cached in little nooks and crannies that the average user knew nothing about. With the right tools, any secrets could come spilling out. There could be a clue in an e-mail—an invitation to meet or even a threat.
    The computer was already on, so she opened it up. On the Internet browser she looked to see the last place Katie had visited. It was myspace.com/theDCpage. Nic clicked. And there she was. Katie. A photo of her striking a pose wearing a fedora, more sexy than disguise. But was that sadness Nic saw in Katie’s eyes? From the angle, she guessed Katie had taken the photo herself with her cell phone.
    On the left of the page were lists of the books and movies and music the