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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE KELLERS

Keller’s ASAC texted that he’s taking command at the SCU campus police station, that he’s created a formal task force, that he’s called in more agents. It’s not surprising. Once it became clear this wasn’t just college kids being college kids—and Cynthia Roosevelt started making calls to Washington—there was no way they’d allow a temp agent to run point.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket. She scans the face of the device. It’s Cody Carpenter’s mom. She takes in a deep breath, answers.

“Hi, um, this is Zoe Carpenter. You left me a message. I’m just out of an emergency surgery and—”

“Thank you for calling back.”

“You said it’s about Cody. Is everything okay?” She sounds flustered, unnerved. Of course she is. A call from the FBI rattles anyone. But this is also about her son.

“We’re trying to locate Cody. When is the last time you heard from him?”

“Not for a couple days. What’s going on? Is he okay?”

“He’s a person of interest in an ongoing investigation,” Keller says.

“He’s a what ?”

Keller deliberates how much to reveal. It’s always a careful balance in interviews, the give and take. “There was an attack on a man named David Maldonado, who’s visiting the area.” Keller pauses. “Parents Weekend for his daughter at Santa Clara University.”

“Oh dear god.”

Keller waits. The pregnant pause.

“Cody wouldn’t. He…” Her voice breaks. “My son has been depressed. I’ve been considering having him withdraw from school. Take a break. He’s been through, well, a lot.”

“Dr. Maldonado told us what happened.”

Keller notices that the woman hasn’t asked if David Maldonado is all right.

“Do you have any idea where we might find your son?”

“It’s Saturday… the dorm? Or library. He hasn’t made many friends yet.” Her voice wavers. “There was a problem with his roommate, who moved out.”

“He’s not in the dorm. The computer records show he entered on Thursday night, but he was seen Friday in Santa Clara and there’s no record of him returning. Do you have a locator on his phone?”

“Hold on.” There’s a rustling sound like she’s checking her phone. Then what sounds like a gasp.

“What is it?”

“He sent me a text when I was in surgery.” Her voice is pure panic.

“It says he loves me. He’s sorry.”

“Do you have a locator on his phone?” Keller repeats.

Another pause. “He’s turned it off.”

Keller can’t help but think about the boy’s sketches. The images of suicide.

“Is there anywhere he likes to go? Somewhere to clear his head?”

“Oh… Oh god. He sent photos of him at a place. Where he said he goes to get away from everything.” Another pause. “I just sent them to you.”

Keller pulls the phone from her ear, opens the text. And feels a chill skitter through her. It’s a photo of sunrise over a body of water, two legs swinging over a ledge. Her mind returns to the sketchbook. The figure standing on the brink.

Of the Golden Gate Bridge.