“N . . . no,” Edie said. “We’re divorced.”

“Do you have sole custody?” Abby asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you tell Nathan’s father about any of this?”

“No, I have no way to reach David. He hasn’t been in touch for years.”

They would have to investigate this further. Ransom demand notwithstanding, the father was a likely suspect. For now she let the matter drop. “Do you have a picture of Nathan?”

“Sure.” The woman fiddled with her phone, then handed it to Abby. Cute kid with a faraway smile, staring dreamily at the camera almost as if he didn’t notice his mom taking the picture.

Abby sent herself the picture from the phone. “Can I look around the house?”

“Why? Nathan isn’t here. I mean, I checked.”

“Sometimes, in abduction cases, there are important details that can really assist us.” Also, often, the kid was in the house, hiding or even simply asleep. And in some cases there were details that shed light on the family’s life. Because there was another suspect in this case: Edie Fletcher herself, who was the only one who’d talked to the supposed kidnappers. Missing children often turned up dead, murdered by their own parents. Abby would search for anything that stuck out. She would know what she was looking for when she saw it.

“Sure,” Edie said. “Anything that would help bring Nathan back.”

Abby had already glimpsed most of the ground floor, which included a cramped kitchen with a small metal dining table, and the family’s living room—one couch facing a TV. There were other framed pictures on a dresser. Abby checked any possible hiding spot—kitchen cupboards, behind the fridge. She also opened the dresser drawers, as Edie hovered behind her, but saw nothing that drew her attention. She would make sure the place was searched more carefully later. A small bathroom was empty, a trail of water on the floor and a wet rag hinting at plumbing problems that could be temporarily ignored.

“Nathan’s bedroom is on the second floor,” Edie said.

Abby climbed the stairs. Two bedrooms on the second floor.

“Nathan’s room is over there,” Edie said behind her.

Abby opened the door. The room was cute, cheerful. A bed with Star Wars bedsheets and a small plushy. A desk scattered with crayons, a few drawings tacked to a corkboard. A distinct, unsettling emptiness loomed in the room, a vacuum shaped like a child. Abby imagined the boy she’d seen in the picture on the bed or sitting at the desk, drawing. She walked over to the desk and inspected the drawings more closely, looking for signs of abuse that a child would perhaps let show. But these were all innocent, childish. A spaceship, a dragon, a family. The family only had a mother and two children. No hidden father figure there. Like Edie had said, the father seemed out of the picture, literally and figuratively.

The door clicked shut behind her, and she turned around, surprised. Edie leaned on the door, looking wary.

“What is it?” Abby asked. Something about the woman’s demeanor unsettled her. She was tense, as if about to pounce or flee, her eyes wide.

Edie’s lips moved, not making a sound.

“Ms. Fletcher,” Abby said. “I’m not sure—”

“Abihail? Don’t you recognize me?”

The name, emerging from the ancient past, shocked Abby to the core. She leaned on the desk as if to steady herself.

A memory flashed in her mind. A girl standing in a beautiful flower field, her arms folded, her cold blue eyes fixed on Abby. “This is my garden, and you’re not welcome.”

And then, months later. Huddling with the girl and another boy in the back of a police car, the dark night lit by tall shimmering flames, a man’s hushed voice saying, “So many of them. This is terrible.”

Abby shivered. The past had a tangible chill to it. “Eden?” she whispered.

The woman let out a sob.

Modern culture provided ways to handle meeting people from your past. Little ceremonies and phrases aimed to bridge the gaps of decades. A wide smile, the meaningless phrase how have you been, perhaps the mention of a mutual acquaintance.

All those were practically useless in this case. Abby felt lost. It was difficult enough to just stand there, holding back the tide of memories that threatened to drown her.

“Is your name now really Edie?” she finally asked.

“No. It was for a while. I changed it back to Eden. And you—”

“I’m Abby,” she said sharply, severing any misunderstanding. “No one knows me as Abihail. Okay?”

“Okay, I won’t call you that.” Eden seemed afraid of her reaction.

She was obviously frightened Abby would walk away. Eden seemed to really think Abby was her son’s best hope.

It wasn’t surprising. Eden probably still had a built-in suspicion of law authorities. In her mind, the police were your enemy, not your friend. And when you needed something, you turned to your family.

“How did you find me?” Abby asked, suddenly realizing she had no idea.

“You were on the news a few months ago,” Edie said, her voice faint. “I saw you. You haven’t changed.”

The bank siege, her fifteen minutes of fame. Seven hostages, two desperate men—and her team had managed to get them to surrender without anyone getting hurt. She had been the primary negotiator, and even better, a woman. The media had loved her, at least until the next shiny thing came their way. But she still had people telling her they’d seen her on TV.