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“I know Mulholland. He’s a good guy. I didn’t want some hothead taking a shot at you.”

“For what? I was barely a suspect.”

“It doesn’t matter, Jake. You don’t have to trust me. That’s fine. But we need to talk.”

I put the car in park and turned off the engine. “You said you found a connection between Natalie Avery and Todd Sanderson.”

“Yep.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you when we talk. In person.”

I thought about that.

“Look, Jake, the FBI wanted to bring you in for a full-fledged interrogation. I told them I could better handle it for them.”

“The FBI?”

“Yep.”

“What do they want with me?”

“Just come in, Jake. It’s fine, trust me.”

“Right.”

“You can talk to me or the FBI.” Shanta sighed. “Look, if I tell you what it’s about, do you promise you’ll come in and talk to me?”

I thought about it. “Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart. Now what’s this about?”

“It’s about bank robberies, Jake.”

* * *

The new rule-breaking, live-on-the-edge me broke plenty of speed laws on the way back to Lanford, Massachusetts. I tried sorting out some of what I learned, putting it in order, testing out various theories and suppositions, rejecting them, trying again. In some ways, it was all coming together; in others, there were pieces that felt too forced for a natural fit.

I was still missing a lot, including the biggie: Where was Natalie?

Twenty-five years ago, Professor Aaron Kleiner had gone to his department chairman, Professor Malcolm Hume, because he caught a student plagiarizing (really, just outright buying) a term paper. My old mentor asked him, in so many words, to let it go—just as he had asked me to do with Professor Eban Trainor.

I wondered whether it was Archer Minor himself who threatened Aaron Kleiner’s family or had it been hired hands of MM? It didn’t matter. They intimidated Kleiner to the point where he knew that he had to make himself disappear. I tried to put myself in his place. Kleiner probably felt scared, cornered, trapped.

Who would he go to for help?

First thought again: Malcolm Hume.

And years later, when Kleiner’s daughter was in the same situation, scared, cornered, trapped . . .

My old mentor’s fingerprints were all over this. I really had to talk to him. I dialed Malcolm’s number in Florida and again got no answer.

Shanta Newlin lived in a brick town house that my mother would have described as “cutesy.” There were overflowing flower boxes and arched windows. Everything was perfectly symmetrical. I walked up the stone walk and rang the doorbell. I was surprised to see a little girl come to the door.

“Who are you?” the little girl said.

“I’m Jake. Who are you?”

The kid was five, maybe six years old. She was about to answer when Shanta came rushing over with a harried look on her face. Shanta had her hair tied back, but strands were falling in her eyes. Sweat dotted her brow.

“I have it, Mackenzie,” Shanta told the little girl. “What did I tell you about answering the door without an adult around?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, yes, I guess that’s true.” She cleared her throat. “You should never open a door unless an adult is around.”

She pointed at me. “He’s around. He’s an adult.”

Shanta gave me an exasperated look. I shrugged. The kid had a point. Shanta invited me in and told Mackenzie to play in the den.

“Can I go outside?” Mackenzie asked. “I want to go on the swing.”

Shanta glanced at me. I shrugged again. I was getting good with the shrugs. “Sure, we can all go out back,” Shanta said with a smile so forced I worried it required staples.

I still had no idea who Mackenzie was or what she was doing there, but I had bigger concerns. We headed into the yard. There was a brand-new cedar-wood swing set complete with rocking horse, sliding board, covered fort, and sandbox. As far as I knew, Shanta lived by herself, making this something of a curiosity. Mackenzie jumped on the rocking horse.

“My fiancé’s daughter,” Shanta said in a way of explanation.

“Oh.”

“We’re getting married in the fall. He’s moving in here.”

“Sounds nice.”

We watched Mackenzie rock the horse with gusto. She gave Shanta the stink eye.

“That kid hates me,” Shanta said.

“Didn’t you read fairy tales when you were a kid? You’re the evil stepmother.”

“Thanks, that helps.” Shanta turned her eyes up toward me. “Wow, you look awful.”

“Is this the part where I say, ‘You should see the other guy’?”

“What are you doing to yourself, Jake?”

“I’m looking for someone I love.”

“Does she even want to be found?”

“The heart doesn’t ask questions.”

“The penis doesn’t ask questions,” she said. “The heart usually has a little more intelligence.”

True enough, I thought. “What is this about a bank robbery?”

She shaded her eyes from the sun. “Impatient, are we?”

“Not in the mood for games, that’s for sure.”

“Fair enough. Do you remember when you first asked me to check on Natalie Avery?”

“Yes.”