The sun had just peeked over the horizon, and its weak light seeped through the curtained front window, filling the Sheffields’ living room with a hazy glow. A heavy silence hung in the air, complementing the room’s stillness. Devoid of people — devoid of any movement or sound whatsoever — it wasn’t hard to perceive the room’s current state as something permanent. As the sun rose and set, only the light would change.

Then, almost simultaneously, the front and back doors crashed inward, and two columns of F.B.I. agents surged into the house. Voices were raised, barking out orders, and rifles and handguns were swung and pointed in all directions.

Two groups of agents broke off from the others, one rushing upstairs, the other descending swiftly to the basement. Both groups were quick and thorough. Neither found any sign of life.

It took the agents perhaps half a minute to secure the house and determine that it was empty. The Sheffields had left, and Michelle Bishop wasn’t there.

Carol Shaw met the lead agent at the front door and together they toured the house. This was not the result that they’d been hoping for, but her decision to finally act on Tom Bishop’s conviction had been somewhat vindicated. It was six-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday. Someone should’ve been there. The Sheffields were guilty of something.

Her tour complete, Carol thanked the lead agent for his excellent work. Then she placed him in charge of the scene and let him know that if he needed her, she’d be at the bookstore.

***

Just as the invasion of the Sheffields’ home began, another group of agents breached the front door of Sheffield Books, breaking its lock, shattering its glass front, and ripping it off its hinges. The door flopped to the floor; the agents trampled it as they stormed inside.

While the ground floor was quickly searched and secured, a group split off into the small office and down the stairs to the basement. No one found anything or anyone. The store, like the house, was empty.

Twenty minutes later, Carol Shaw arrived and immediately sought out the lead agent. Learning that no sign of the Sheffields or Michelle had been found, she felt disappointed but reminded herself that the Sheffields had fled. Tom Bishop was on to something.

Carol walked through the store with the lead agent. It had always been her way to examine important scenes personally, so that if it was necessary, she could say that she’d been there and seen for herself what there was to see. This time, given Tom’s enforced absence, it seemed especially important. He would want to know that she had been there.

A forensics team was at work. She put her hands in her pockets and tried to stay out of the way. At the back of the store she admired the tall sectioned-glass windows and looked out at the morning as it gradually bloomed.

She loved spring, and autumn too — how for most of the day the sunlight caught things at angles and made even the ordinary look magical. Winter was too dark and grim, especially in Seattle, with its constant clouds and drizzle. And summer was too harsh and unforgiving, like a single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, blasting every surface with its hard light.

Carol was led behind the counter through the office and down to the basement. There were perhaps five other people there, all but one from forensics. Bookshelves stood filled with old books. A worn oriental rug covered the concrete floor. A burgundy curtain hung across the room’s only window, beneath which stood an antique easy chair and a small table.

It was a cozy setup. Carol would have been envious if it weren’t already clear that Walker Sheffield was a criminal. Perhaps not a child killer — they still didn’t know for sure — but he’d done something.

Carol turned to the lead agent and asked him where the rest of the basement was. From the look on his face, it was clear he didn’t know why she was asking, yet to Carol it was so obvious. The basement was significantly smaller than the store above.

Three of the walls were made of concrete and were part of the building’s foundation. But the wall behind the bookshelves had been added. Carol dropped to her knees and peered beneath the shelves. There were rollers on tracks, and at one end of the shelves there was a gap in which a small dresser had been placed. She ordered the dresser removed, and then with her bare hands — gloves be damned — she grabbed the shelves and pulled them aside.

There was a door, and for an instant they all stood staring at it, united in disbelief. So often in this job, with all the procedures and paperwork and politics, nothing real actually happened. Yet here was something real. A door, carefully hidden. And whatever was behind it was real too.

“Open this door,” Carol said.

***

Within minutes the door was open, and on the other side they found Michelle Bishop, naked and dead. Rigor mortis had set in but maximum stiffness had not yet been achieved, which meant she’d been dead for at least three hours but no more than twelve. Cause of death was dehydration.

In a bathtub at the other end of the hidden room, they found a bundle of nylon rope, a ball gag, and a blanket. At some point, Michelle had freed herself, tumbled out of the tub, and struggled on her hands and knees across the dirt floor. But by then she’d already been close to death. There was nothing to indicate that she had reached the door. If she had cried out, no one had heard her.

***

“I’m sorry, Tom.”

Silence.

“How’s Alice doing?” Carol asked.

“She doesn’t know.”

“She doesn’t know anything?”

“No.”

Carol nodded.

“You found the other girls?” Tom asked.

“In the floor. The four we knew about, plus six others we’re still trying to identify. And an adult male.”

“An adult male?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the connection?”

“Name’s Matthew Pullman. He worked at Klein Faliszek with Jane Sheffield.”

“When was he last seen?”

“Twelve days ago.”

“Twelve days ago?”

“Yes.” Then, “The day Michelle went missing.”

Silence.

“Where did Sheffield go?” Tom asked.

“I can’t tell you that–”

“You can. You’ve already told me more than you told the press.”

Carol hesitated.

“You said you were sorry,” Tom reminded her.

“I am.”

“About what?”

“You lost your daughter–”

“I lost my daughter, yes. What else?”

“What else?”

“What else are you sorry about?”

“I don’t understand.”

“On my own I came up with Walker Sheffield as a suspect. And I didn’t even know that a colleague of his wife’s had gone missing the same day as Michelle.”

“What are you saying?”

“You made a mistake taking me off this case.”

“You assaulted a boy–”

“I didn’t assault anyone.”

Tom held up his wounded hand.

“I know what you said happened,” Carol said. “The boy said something else.”

“You’re not sorry you took me off the case.”

“We needed to clear things up.”

“And now my daughter’s dead, and the man who killed her is free.”

“We did our best.”

“That was your best, putting me on leave?”

“It’s what I needed to do.”

“And you don’t wish you’d done it differently.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Carol took a deep breath, checking her emotions.

“You’ve been here,” she said. “You know how it is. With Phoebe Kantor, and Debbie Gilmore. It’s always there, what you could’ve done, what you might’ve done. But you remind yourself that you did your best, because you did do your best.”

Tom stared at her. His expression was stone.

“Where did Sheffield go?” he asked again.

“He and his family left the country.”

“Where to?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I’ll find out.”

“How?”

“I’ll find out, and this time I’ll deal with it on my own.”

Carol sighed.

“So then do that,” she said.

“You wouldn’t rather I work with you?”

“I would rather you stay here with Alice. I would rather you take care of your wife, and mourn.”

“I’ll do that — when Walker Sheffield is dead.”

Carol stood.

“Canada,” she said.

“What?”

“He crossed the border at Blaine twenty-four hours ago.”

“Is he in Vancouver?”

“As far as we can tell, no.”

“Where are you looking?”

“We’re working with the RCMP and are focused on the eastbound highways. But of course we haven’t ruled out northern B.C. and the Northwest Territories, although north would pretty much be a dead-end for him.”

Tom nodded.

“So will you work with us?” Carol asked. “I can’t reinstate you, not yet, but will you let us know what you find out?”

“Sure.”

“Great. And I’ll do the same.”

“Alright.”

“Great,” Carol said again. “I’ll be in touch.”

As Carol left, Tom sent up a silent thanks. By trying to mislead him, she had done him a favor. Wherever Walker Sheffield had fled to, it wasn’t Canada.