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Ashley rolls her eyes and gives me a headshake that’s partly to apologize and partly to say,Can you believe this kid?“That’s better than awful,” she tells Henry. To me, she says, “Thanks again for watching him, Ethan. I owe you.”
Putting a hand on Henry’s shoulder, she leads him out of the backyard and past the side of the house. I head inside, curious to see how well the trail cam performs when there’s not a ten-year-old boy standing directly in front of it. Parked at the sliding glass door that leads to the patio, I watch the yard and wait. Five minutes later, a squirrel emerges from the woods. After a few tentative steps onto the grass, it begins to bound across the lawn, its tail twitching. When it passes in front of the camera, my phone lets out a telltale alert.
Ping!
I check the picture on the app. With Henry out of the frame, I get a better sense of the camera’s view—a clear square of grass stretching from the base of the magnolia tree to the cusp of the woods. In the center of the frame is what set the camera off—the squirrel, caught in mid-leap, as if it’s flying.
Satisfied the camera works, I set my phone down on the counter and make a cup of coffee. As I stir creamer into the steaming mug, the phone erupts into noise again.
Ping!
I take a sip of coffee and reach for the phone. The camera has now sent me a picture of a cardinal pecking at the ground, its red plumage bright against the green grass. I set the phone back down on the counter.
Ping!
I pick it up again, check the app, see a picture of both the squirrel and the cardinal, warily eyeing each other on opposite sides of the frame.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Jesus, did the backyard suddenly turn into a zoo?
I grab the phone again, expecting to see the squirrel, the cardinal, or some combination of both. Instead, on the app are three pictures of a woman I’ve never seen before standing in the backyard. In her earlyforties, she’s dressed like a lawyer. Tidy hair. Tailored suit. Starched white shirt. Slung over her shoulder is a purse as big as a diaper bag.
The first image is of her looking at the woods behind the house, her back turned to the camera, her purse prominent at her hip. The second catches her in profile as, now aware of the camera, she spins around to face it. The third picture is the most arresting—her staring with curiosity directly into the camera, her lightly glossed lips forming a bright smile.
I do my own turn, whirling from the coffee maker to the patio door. The woman now stands on the other side, cupping her hands against the glass as she peers inside.
“Hi!” she says brightly. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you there. I was just checking out your camera. Looks fancy!”
Cautiously, I approach the door. “Can I help you with something?”
“Oh, my bad. Of course.” The woman presses a set of credentials against the glass, allowing me to see that she’s with the state police. “I’m Detective Cassandra Palmer. Do you have a minute to chat?”
Now her surprise appearance makes more sense. Ragesh had said Detective Palmer would be coming around to talk to us.
“I assume you’re Ethan?” she says when I let her inside.
“I am.”
“Fantastic. Always good to check first, you know?” The detective nods to the kitchen table. “Mind if I sit?”
“Sure,” I say as she pulls out a chair and gingerly settles into it. “Coffee?”
Detective Palmer beams. “That would be swell, actually. Thank you.”
As I fill a second mug, I notice Detective Palmer looking through the kitchen doorway to other parts of the house. Surveying the decor—or, rather, the lack of it—she says, “Are you moving in or out?”
“Little of both,” I say. “My parents moved out. I’m moving in. Temporarily.”
Detective Palmer smiles politely, as if she doesn’t believe me. I don’t, either.
I join her at the table and slide the coffee her way. She takes a lip-smacking sip and says, “So, Ethan, as you’ve likely already guessed, I’m here to talk about the Billy Barringer case.” Detective Palmer pauses to enjoy another sip. “That’s why I was poking around outside, by the way. I wanted to get a good look at the crime scene.”
Hearing those words to describe my backyard is jarring, especially when they’re uttered so cheerily. And even though I know abduction is itself a crime, I find myself asking, “Do you think Billy was killed in the yard?”
“Gosh, no.” Detective Palmer jerks her head toward the lawn beyond the patio door. “If he had been murdered there, the forensics team would have found evidence. Blood spatter, maybe bone fragments. Billy was definitely killed in the woods and his body disposed of in the lake. But let’s not dwell on the gory details.”
Too late, I think as I take a sip of coffee. Detective Palmer does the same, content to wait for me to speak next.