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The following morning, Macy grabbed an apple from the kitchen, filled her massive to-go cup with coffee, and was off before I’d managed to get my pants on.

Way to hurt a boy’s feelings, I texted.

Aw, Sweetums, came the reply, which about covered it.

I made a call to the Kopper Kettle to check whether Beth Witham was working. I was told she was busy with orders, and I said I’d try again later. I didn’t add that next time it would be in person.

I contacted Tony Fulci, who had taken over watch duties from his brother at the Clark house. Everything was quiet the previous night, he said, although he did notice one change: Colleen had placed an electric candle in the front window of the house before going to bed. When she came outside to check on the effect, Tony had asked after its purpose.

“It’s so Henry will be able to see it and find his way home,” she told him.

And I thought, My God.

“You still there?” asked Tony.

“I’m here.”

“I didn’t know how to answer,” he continued, “so I got back in my car and cried. I cried like a fucking baby. What does that say about me?”

“It says a lot, and all good.”

“You sure?”

“She couldn’t ask for better men to watch over her than you and your brother.”

Tony digested this in silence, in the manner of a man forced to consume unfamiliar yet not unpleasant food. He and Paulie weren’t used to receiving compliments, so he wasn’t sure of the appropriate response. In the end, he settled for “Maybe.”

“What about Antoine Pinette?” he asked.

“We had a conversation. His idiot brother Leo was one of the firebugs, but Antoine wasn’t with him, and didn’t sign off on the attack. Bobby Ocean put Leo up to it, so Bobby’s on today’s visitation list.”

“I know where Bobby lives,” said Tony, “if it helps.”

Admittedly, it was tempting to consider unleashing the Fulcis on Bobby Ocean’s residence, like two wrecking balls in human form, but common sense prevailed.

“Don’t think it’s not appreciated,” I said, “but let’s keep that option in reserve.”

Tony acceded, if grudgingly. He told me the police were on the property again, if in smaller numbers than before, and he’d glimpsed Colleen’s mother up and about in the house, in case I wanted to speak with her or her daughter. It couldn’t hurt to talk to them, but before I hung up I warned Tony that the protection detail on Colleen would be ongoing until public interest in her began to fade. I mentioned bringing in Mattia Reggio. Tony didn’t object. He might have been aware of my reservations about Reggio, but Tony and Paulie got on well with the older man because he had a wealth of stories about a generation of wise guys from the North Shore and Southie. For the Fulcis, it was like listening to a living George V. Higgins audiobook.

I phoned the Clark house. Evelyn Miller answered and said that her daughter claimed to have enjoyed a good night’s sleep and was currently showering. They planned to take a trip to the outlet malls in Kittery, and browse the stores across the water in Portsmouth, before getting an early dinner. Colleen, they hoped, was less likely to be recognized among tourists and shoppers.

“I’ll see if Mattia Reggio can drive you down,” I said. “He’s not as conspicuous as the Fulcis.”

It was hard to imagine anyone who might be more conspicuous than the Fulcis, so this was a low bar.

“I had hoped we could have some time to ourselves,” Evelyn said.

“Reggio won’t intrude, and I’d prefer us not to take any chances. If you get cornered by a reporter, or some fool with a vengeance complex, Reggio will be able to deal with it. If all goes well, you won’t even know he’s there.”

She consented to the shadow. I called Reggio, but his phone went to voice mail. I let five minutes go by before trying once more, again unsuccessfully. Part of Reggio’s deal with Moxie was that he should be available from early morning to late at night. I tried the home number and Reggio’s wife picked up. I’d met Amara once or twice. She came across as an interesting, strong-willed woman, even if she was never anything more than coldly polite with me.

“I was just about to call Mr. Castin,” she said, “in case he’d heard from Matty. He hasn’t been in touch since late yesterday afternoon. That’s not like him.”

“Did Mattia”—I wasn’t about to start calling him Matty—“say where he was going?”

“Somewhere up in Piscataquis, I think.”

I kept my voice neutral.

“Did he happen to mention why?”

The reply took time. I regretted that we weren’t speaking face-to-face. I didn’t want Amara to lie to me, if that was what she was planning to do. Lying was harder when it had to be done in person.

“He was trying to help with Colleen Clark,” she said. “He’d been making calls about her, but he wouldn’t share the details. Matty can be like that. He has his own office, and what happens in there stays there. Given his past, you can appreciate why.”

I could. A woman like Amara Reggio would have learned quickly not to ask questions about her husband’s business. Even after he’d left that life behind, old habits would die hard.

“He wanted to prove something,” she continued.

“About the case?”

“And to you.”

“Why me?”

“He feels you don’t like or trust him. You can deny it, but don’t expect me to believe you. Matty respects you, for what it’s worth. He wants to show you what he can do.”

Damn Mattia Reggio, I thought. Damn him and his hurt feelings. And damn me too.

“I need to know who he called,” I said.

“How do I find that out?”

“Did he use his cell phone or the landline?”

“His cell. He doesn’t have an extension in his office.”

“Do you have online access to your cell phone account?”

“Of course.”

“I’d like you to go to it, take a screenshot of the recent calls, both incoming and outgoing, and email it to me. If they’re not already logged by your provider, ask them for the numbers as a matter of urgency. If you can identify some of them, even to rule them out—calls to your children, say, or mutual friends—do that. Do you know the password for his computer?”

“I have it written down, but I’ve never used it. That’s only for emergencies.”

“Use it now,” I said. “Bring up the search history, if he hasn’t cleared it. Look for notes he might have made, scraps of paper in the trash, anything that might indicate what he was planning to do. Take pictures and add them to whatever you send me. If you run into problems and want me to drop by, let me know.”

“I can manage,” she said.

She wouldn’t want me nosing around in her husband’s affairs. I had disrespected him, and now his wounded pride might have led him into harm’s way.

“Amara—” I began, but she killed the connection before I could say anything more.