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Jalbert lies in his bed, ramrod straight, listening to a prairie wind blowing outside, thinking about the next day’s interrogation.

He doesn’t want to think about it, he needs his sleep so he can be fresh in the morning.

Coughlin is the one who should lie sleepless tonight, tossing and turning.

But sometimes you can’t turn off the machine.

He swings his legs out of bed, grabs his phone, and calls George Gibson, who’s been heading the KBI forensics unit for the last seven years.

Gibson flew in from Wichita as soon as the judge signed off on the search warrants, and was ready to start work as soon as Coughlin’s truck was delivered.

Calling him is a mistake, Gibson will call himif he has something, but Jalbert can’t help himself.

Sometimes—like now, for instance—he knows how junkies feel.

“George, it’s Frank.

Have you got anything? Any sign at all that the girl was in his truck?”

“Nothing yet,” Gibson says, “but we’re still working.”

“I’m going to leave my phone on.

Call me if you get something definitive.

It doesn’t matter how late.”

“I will.

Now may I go back to work?”

“Yes.

Sorry.

It’s just… we’re working for the girl, George.

For Miss Yvonne.

We’re her—”

“Advocates.

Thanks for reminding me.”

“Sorry.

Sorry.

Go back to work.”

Jalbert ends the call and lies down.

He begins counting and adding.

One and two makes three, three more is six, four more is ten, five more is fifteen.

By the time he gets to seventeen is a hundred and fifty-three, he has finally begun to relax.

By the time he gets to twenty-eight is four hundred and six, he’s drifting into sleep.