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Colleen Clark eventually stopped crying, though it took a while. Afterward, she went to freshen up while I contacted Moxie. As it turned out, his secretary had already spotted two local reporters hanging around the parking lot behind his office. Once Colleen had been formally charged, and Moxie officially confirmed as her attorney, there’d be little point in trying to conceal their connection, but for now it made sense to take advantage while we could. Moxie suggested a small diner over in Stroudwater, which didn’t stay open beyond noon. Moxie, it transpired, was a silent partner in the venture, even if he never ate there as the food was terrible. He had a key, and we could bring our own coffee, because the house blend tasted like a rat had drowned in it.

“Why,” I asked him, “are you a partner in a bad restaurant?”

“Because that way,” Moxie replied, “I can make it a better one.”

Which was a good answer, if vaguely reminiscent of something Christ might have said on the way to the cross.

While Colleen got ready to leave, I took a look at her son’s bedroom. One wall was painted cerulean blue with white clouds, but the rest was a delicate eggshell already displaying signs of a child’s occupancy: stains, scuff marks, scratches. The room had built-in closets and shelves, all neatly filled with a young boy’s clothes and possessions, and a toy box stood by the door. The bed was positioned equidistant from the wall on the left and the window on the right. A white teddy bear sat slumped against the bed’s safety bars like a prisoner. On the floor lay a mattress, a comforter, and a pillow, along with a brown-and-white stuffed dog. As Moxie had indicated, Colleen was sleeping in her son’s room.

I checked the window. It had a standard latch, but also an adjustable window restrictor to prevent it being opened more than two inches. Outside, a path ran along the wall of the house, so the police wouldn’t have been able to find footprints. The restrictor’s cable had been neatly severed, but otherwise there was no sign of damage. I took a tape measure from my pocket, ran it over the window and the room, and made a note of the figures.

“It’s already beginning to smell less like him.”

Colleen was standing in the doorway. She had changed into dark trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt. A blue casual jacket was draped over her left arm, and a purse hung from her right shoulder. She had put on some makeup, but her heart wasn’t in it, causing her to resemble an unfinished doll.

“I thought about sleeping on his pillow,” she continued, “but I was afraid that my scent would erase what was left of his.”

I said nothing, because nothing I had to say would help. I don’t think she even wanted me to speak, only listen. I watched her straighten a pile of T-shirts and smooth the topmost.

“Whoever took him knew about the restrictor,” I said. “A standard box cutter wouldn’t have been enough to sever it. They brought along a cable cutter.”

“The police asked if we had one in the house.”

“When?”

She thought about the question.

“After Stephen found the blanket.”

That made sense. Following the revelation of the blanket, the police had been seeking evidence of a setup.

“What did you say?” I said.

“I told them I didn’t know. Stephen has a tool set, but he doesn’t use it much. He’s not very good at that kind of thing.”

I was beginning to wonder what exactly Stephen Clark might have been good at. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t make for a long inventory.

“Did your husband show them the set?”

“Yes, I remember him going to look for it.”

“And?”

“I believe the police have it now.”

“Did it contain a cable cutter?”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t say.”

I took one last look around the room, but there was only the evidence of absence.

“If you’re ready,” I said, “we can go.”