Joe Downey took a seat at a desk in the front row of the classroom and waited as Mr. Harrell and the woman he’d come in with pulled up chairs and sat down across from him.

Joe didn’t know why he was there, didn’t know who the woman was, didn’t recognize the man standing apart from them in the corner. He didn’t know what was going on, why he was in trouble this time. But whatever it was, he wanted them to know from the start that he didn’t care. So he crossed his arms and watched them with affected disinterest.

“Joe, this is Detective Perry from the Seattle Police Department,” Mr. Harrell said, indicating the woman at his side. “She needs to ask you a few questions, and I’m here to look after your interests. We can’t seem to reach either of your parents, and we don’t have time to wait for them. It’s a somewhat urgent matter.”

Nothing was said about the man in the corner, a short, slim man dressed in a simple black suit. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to them; he stood rigid with his small, dark eyes pointed out the window.

“How are you this morning, Joe?” Detective Perry asked with a smile.

Joe shrugged. He’d been in trouble plenty of times and was familiar with this technique. She wanted to put him at ease, to make him vulnerable so she could tear him apart.

“You’ve probably heard already,” the detective continued, “but one of your classmates is missing.”

Joe shrugged again.

“You know Michelle Bishop, of course,” the detective said. “No one has seen Michelle since she left school on Friday.”

“Okay,” Joe said.

“Well,” the detective continued, “according to another student, Michelle left school early, and at the time she was pretty upset.”

“So?” Joe said.

“Would you know anything about that?” the detective asked.

“About what?” Joe asked.

“Michelle left early. And she was upset.”

“Okay.”

“What can you tell us about that?”

They were fishing. They were sure he knew something, but they didn’t know how much. And he didn’t know how much of what he knew would get him into trouble. So the only option was full denial.

“Nothing,” Joe said flatly.

Detective Perry and Mr. Harrell exchanged a look to tell him that they knew he was lying. But Joe didn’t care. The only way out of this trap was to continue to deny everything.

“Joe, we’re just trying to figure out what happened Friday,” Mr. Harrell interjected. “Michelle’s been missing for almost three days. If you can help us understand why she left early on Friday and what she was upset about–”

“I don’t know anything,” Joe said.

The man in the corner spit out a derisive laugh. They all looked at him, but his eyes didn’t leave the window.

“Who’s he?” Joe asked the detective.

Detective Perry hesitated for a moment and then said, “He’s from the F.B.I.”

The F.B.I.? Why was the F.B.I. in the room? Joe waited for the detective to elaborate, but she seemed to have nothing else to say about the slim man in the simple black suit.

“Look, Joe,” Mr. Harrell said, “no one here thinks you’re responsible for Michelle’s disappearance. We just think you can help us fill in some blanks.”

“You spoke with her before she left school,” the detective said. “Why was she so upset?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Joe said, now unable to take his eyes off the man in the corner.

“You had some kind of argument,” the detective said. “What was it about?”

“We didn’t have an argument,” Joe insisted.

Whatever had happened to Michelle Bishop, it wasn’t his fault, Joe knew that. But he’d given her a pretty hard time, and she’d been really upset — so upset that maybe she’d run off and done something stupid. Not his fault, not a bit of it. But adults were good at connecting things.

“According to Ellie Brand–”

“Ellie Brand doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Ask my friends, they’ll tell you.”

“So you didn’t talk to Michelle right before she left?”

“Sure,” Joe admitted, “but we didn’t have a fight.”

“What did you talk about?” the detective asked.

“She was standing by her locker. I said something to her and she freaked out. Who knows why?”

“What did you say to her?”

Joe turned to Mr. Harrell, appealing to the principal.

“You know what she was like,” he said. “Michelle was different. Some kids thought she was retarded. If she was upset on Friday, who knows why?”

The F.B.I. agent loudly cleared his throat, and they all turned their heads to discover that he was now looking intently at them. He had his hands in his pants pockets and his jacket was pulled open, tucked under his arms.

Joe caught a glimpse of a gun belt.

“Detective,” the agent said. “Mr. Harrell. May I have a few minutes alone with Joe?”

Detective Perry flashed a strained smile at Joe then stood and approached the agent. Joe watched them as they spoke briefly in whispers, hers harsh and urgent, his a calm, deep rumble. Finally, looking defeated, the detective turned and nodded at Mr. Harrell, who rose to his feet.

“We’ll be back in five minutes, Joe,” she said, and then she and Mr. Harrell left the room.

The agent waited until the door closed behind them. Then he took a seat opposite Joe.

“I’m an Assistant Special Agent in Charge at the F.B.I. field office here in Seattle,” he began, “and for the last year, I’ve been working on a series of missing persons cases, all young girls. Maybe you’ve heard about them?”

Joe shook his head.

“So far it’s four,” the agent continued. “Four girls, all around Michelle’s age. The first was a ten-year-old from North Seattle, named Maya Bates. She disappeared three years ago, and we thought it was an isolated case until two years later when an eleven-year-old named Amy Rosen was taken, also in North Seattle. Three months after that, eleven-year-old Phoebe Kantor disappeared on Capitol Hill. Then four months ago, it was a Laurelhurst girl, twelve-year-old Deborah Gilmore. None of the girls has been seen again. They’re all presumed dead. Does any of this sound familiar?”

Again Joe shook his head.

“You know, you really should read the paper,” the agent said, “or at least watch the news. It’s your city, too.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Joe asked. “Do you think…?”

Joe’s voice trailed off. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed before the agent finished Joe’s question for him.

“Do I think you took those girls?” he said. “No. Of course not. I mentioned them because it could be that Michelle is girl number five. That whoever took the other girls also took her. But there is another possibility that I need to exclude right now. And that possibility is you.”

Joe watched with mounting discomfort as something dark and barely suppressed took hold of the agent’s face.

“I know all about you, Joe,” the agent went on. “You’re a bully. You pick on other kids because you’re angry and unhappy, and because you’re shorter and heavier than the other boys, and not as smart. I’m guessing that things aren’t so great at home either. God knows where your parents are.”

“They’re at work,” Joe cut in defensively.

“Sure they are,” the agent said. “Ellie Brand’s mother was here in fifteen minutes. We spent an hour trying to reach your parents before we gave up and pulled you out of class. My guess is they’re at home sleeping off a weekend bender. But wherever they are, I’m sure they’re not exactly ideal parents, which makes them more fuel for your bullying.”

“I’m not a bully,” Joe insisted.

“Of course you are,” the agent countered. “You lock on to kids that are weak or different and you attack them. You expose their weaknesses to entertain and impress the others, who probably think and feel the way you do but would never actually say anything.

“But make no mistake, Joe. The other kids might be in awe of your audacity, but they don’t actually like you. And your victims? Ten or fifteen years from now, they’ll remember you as something they survived, and they’ll hope that your life has turned out badly and that you’re exactly as unhappy as you deserve to be.”

Joe said nothing. Ten or fifteen years from now? He couldn’t think that far ahead. It was hard enough dealing with each day as it came. As much as he hated school, at least he knew where he’d be for a few hours each day, five days a week. What would he do when school was over?

“But that’s your problem,” the agent continued. “My problem is a missing girl. A girl who in this case happens to be my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” Joe said, his spine tightening.

“Yes, Joe,” Tom Bishop said. “Michelle is my daughter. And messing with her might turn out to be the biggest mistake of your short life.”

This couldn’t be happening. This F.B.I. agent, this man with a gun, couldn’t be Michelle’s father. Joe wanted to leap to his feet and run out of the room, but all he could do was sit there, wide-eyed and trembling, and remind himself that whatever had happened to Michelle, he’d had nothing to do with it.

The agent took out a white handkerchief and used it to reach into his jacket. He pulled out a small pocket knife and placed it on the desk.

“Did you see Michelle again after she left school on Friday?” the agent asked.

“No,” Joe said quickly.

“You didn’t track her down that afternoon?”

“No,” Joe said again.

“Because that’s how it happens, Joe,” the agent said. “Eventually hurtful words aren’t enough for the bully. He needs to take it to another level. Emotional violence is replaced by physical violence. Is that what happened with Michelle?”

“No!” Joe exclaimed. “I didn’t do anything to Michelle. I haven’t seen her since she left school.”

The agent sighed and scrutinized Joe for a long moment.

“The problem is,” he said, “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Okay,” the agent said, nodding. “You’re telling the truth.” He looked at the desktop and asked, “Do you recognize this pocket knife?”

Joe glanced at the knife and said, “No.”

“How can you be sure?” the agent said. “You barely looked at it. Pick it up, open it.”

Joe didn’t move.

“Pick it up,” the agent repeated, this time more sternly.

Joe extended a trembling hand and grabbed the knife.

“Open it,” the agent said.

Joe pulled the blade out and turned the knife over in his hand. He didn’t own a knife and hadn’t held one in ages, but for the agent’s benefit, he made a show of scrutinizing it. It was an ordinary pocket knife, with a stainless steel handle and a blade that was maybe two inches long.

“Do you recognize it?” the agent asked.

Joe shook his head and set the knife down.

“See, I believe that,” the agent said, picking up the knife with his handkerchief.

He held it in the air, the blade still open.

“Because this knife is mine. What I don’t believe is that you had nothing to do with Michelle’s disappearance.”

“I don’t know what happened–!”

Tom Bishop slammed his free hand down on the desktop, silencing the boy.

“You know what she was like,” the agent said. “Michelle was different. Some kids thought she was retarded.”

For a moment Joe was confused. Then he realized that the agent was repeating his own words from a few minutes before. Of course then he hadn’t known then that he’d been describing the agent’s daughter.

“Wait a minute–”

“Michelle was different,” the agent said again, with a slight shift in emphasis. “Some kids thought she was retarded.”

“I didn’t think she was retarded–”

“Sure you did,” the agent said. “But that’s not what I’m interested in. You were talking about Michelle in the past tense. And there you just did it again.”

“I don’t understand–”

“Yes you do, Joe. But my five minutes are up. So we’re going to have to continue this conversation downtown.”

The agent’s free hand was still down on the desk. In one swift motion, he lowered the open blade and made a long, diagonal cut across the back of it. Blood erupted from the wound.

The agent stood abruptly, as if under attack, and sent his chair tumbling. Shocked, Joe screamed and fell to the floor. The agent threw the knife across the room and stuffed the handkerchief back into his jacket. Then, with his uninjured hand, he grabbed Joe by the back of the neck and dragged him out of the classroom.

Summoned by the sound of Joe’s scream, Mr. Harrell and Detective Perry were already running toward them when they stepped into the hallway. Seeing Joe struggling against the agent’s grip, the boy’s face reddening and blood dripping thickly from the agent’s wound, they stopped short. They waited wide-eyed for an explanation, but Tom Bishop pushed past them, heading for the nearest exit.

“What happened?” Detective Perry asked, trailing the agent down the hallway. “Where are you taking him?”

“He attacked me with a knife,” the agent said. “You’ll find it back there. Don’t touch it, we’ll need the prints.”

“What did you do?” Mr. Harrell asked, struggling to keep pace with the other two.

“Why did he attack you?” the detective wanted to know.

“He was referring to Michelle in the past tense,” the agent said. “Like he knows she’s already dead. You heard him yourselves. When I challenged him, he pulled out a knife and cut me and tried to escape.”

“It’s not true!” Joe yelled. “He cut himself!”

Classroom doors opened and teachers leaned out to see what was happening. Behind them, students craned their necks trying to catch a glimpse.

“Wait a minute, agent,” Detective Perry said, “we need to continue our interrogation–”

“You had your chance,” the agent said loudly and dismissively, not even bothering to look at the detective. “This boy is refusing to answer direct questions pertaining to the disappearance of Michelle Bishop. Furthermore he attacked a federal officer.”

Tom raised his wounded hand and held it in the air, making sure everyone got a good look.

“Where are you taking him?” the detective asked.

“Downtown to continue this interrogation under more formal circumstances.”

“You can’t do that. He’s a minor–”

“My daughter’s life is at stake, so I’m not interested in what you think I can or can’t do. The point is that I am.”

***

In Mrs. McGirk’s classroom, Ryan stepped away from the door and stood back as the other kids, who’d been eagerly trying to follow the action in the hallway, hurried past him to the windows on the other side of the room.

He felt numb and strange and afraid. For the other kids, Michelle being missing was something exciting but obscure. None of them had known her the way he had, none of them had spent as much time with her. None of them had visited her home, listened to her favorite music, browsed her favorite books, heard her oblique thoughts and eccentric plans for the future. None of them had had her lips pressed against theirs. None of them had loved her.

Ryan took a deep breath and looked across the room at the kids’ backs as they peered outside. He had seen Michelle’s father pulling Joe Downey roughly down the hallway, had seen Mr. Harrell and that woman urgently trailing them. Who was the woman? And why did Michelle’s father have to drag Joe Downey away? Ryan knew Michelle better than anyone, yet none of it made sense. She had tried to call him Friday evening a dozen times. What did Joe Downey have to do with that?

Ryan moved to the windows, stood behind a smaller kid, and looked out just in time to see Tom Bishop loading Joe Downey into his black Ford Explorer. Doors slammed, then the engine roared to life. In seconds, the vehicle was gone.

Joe did not return to Clifford Middle School. His mother and father might’ve been worthless at parenting, but they knew a payday when it landed in their laps. They immediately pulled their son from school and demanded compensation. When they died a few weeks later, Joe was left on his own. Luckily for him, Ellie Brand wasn’t one to hold a grudge.

Ryan would see Tom Bishop just two more times. These sightings would be confusing and brief; the second would be violent and result in at least two deaths. Both encounters would initially inspire hope in Ryan, hope that he might discover Michelle’s fate and that their reunion was imminent. But each encounter ended almost before it began, and Ryan never saw Michelle again.