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apart.
    The reporter: “Nobody is raising that possibility at the moment, but nobody has ruled it out, either. The fact is, Patrick Hanrahan is worth upwards of fifty million dollars — ”
    “Jeez,” Mia said.
    “ — and it’s only natural to wonder if that played a role in this situation. There is one other adult with regular access to the Hanrahan house — a nanny — but she has been interviewed and cleared.”
    They continued to talk, speculating on this or that, but nothing substantial or factual came up. I turned the TV off.
    “Why did you say it was bullshit?” Mia asked.
    “About the mom ending the interview?”
    “Yeah? Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”
    “Not even a little bit,” I said. “First of all, we don’t even know if that report is accurate. She might have said, ‘Guys, look, I’m beat, and I need to take a break.’ By the time it gets to the reporters, it sounds like she’s got something to hide. But even if she is refusing to talk anymore, let me tell you, sometimes there are good reasons.”
    “Such as?” She wasn’t being snotty. It was an honest question.
    “The parents are always the first suspects. Always. Everybody knows that. When you’re the parent, you want to answer their questions as quickly as possible and get them moving on to other things, to the real investigation. But sometimes they don’t move on. They keep asking you questions — totally irrelevant questions — and the clock is ticking, and you start to lose your patience. You know they are wasting their time, but they won’t let it go. Just a few more questions. One more interview. Finally you just want to throw your hands up and say, ‘Enough!’ You want to make them move on. They’re used to that kind of behavior, the stonewalling. They know it might mean nothing at all. But the public — well, they’re ready to believe just about anything. You’re guilty until proven innocent. Worse than that, you’re probably a goddamn murderer. You killed your kid and dumped her in a lake, or you chopped her into pieces and flushed her down the toilet. Doesn’t matter how whacked out the theory is. And the media? Hell, they’ll keep pimping whatever draws the ratings.” I realized my voice had been rising and my fists were clenched. I took a deep breath. “Do I sound cynical?”
    Mia didn’t say anything.
    “You there?”
    “Yeah, I’m here.” A pause. Then: “I don’t know if I’ve ever said this, but I’m really sorry for everything you went through.”

    By now — again, being totally honest — my ninety percent certainty from last night had dropped even further. Had I really seen a little girl in Brian Pierce’s doorway? I had been a long ways away, looking through binoculars. Sometimes light can play off a screen door in odd ways. The eyes can do tricky things. For instance, who hasn’t heard of a hunter mistaking a stump or a shadow or a fellow human being for a deer? Happens with alarming regularity. People “see” Bigfoot, leprechauns, and UFOs. Your brain tricks you into seeing what you want to see.
    So I did what I would have done anyway if I hadn’t possibly spotted a missing girl: I loaded up all of my regular supplies — my laptop and an ice chest full of food and drink — and headed out to conduct surveillance on Brian Pierce. It was, after all, my job.
    But as I drove down Thomas Springs Road toward Pierce’s place, I saw something unexpected. A marked deputy’s cruiser was parked in the church parking lot, shaded, and fairly well concealed by the canopy of a towering oak tree. Almost exactly where I had parked yesterday. In that position, the deputy would be able to see Pierce’s driveway where it met the road.
    I had to wonder — was this cop simply running radar, just like the deputies had said yesterday? Or had Ruelas perhaps changed his mind and decided to keep tabs on Pierce after all? That could make sense. Hide in plain sight with a marked unit. As I passed, I