They sat in a small office away from the hubbub of the detective squad room. Carver had brought them chairs and sat to the side of the desk so that it wouldn’t stand between them. Abby took the chair in the corner between Carver and Eden.

“Gabrielle,” Abby said. “When was the last time you talked to your dad?”

“Seven years ago,” Gabrielle said guardedly.

“Did he ever try to contact you?”

“No. My dad has nothing to do with this; he doesn’t give a shit about us.”

Carver nodded, letting it go. He then walked her through Nathan’s motions when he usually came back from school. Eden answered with short sentences, speaking fast, as if she wanted to hurry the process along.

“When did you get concerned that he wasn’t returning home?” Carver asked.

“I came back from work—”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m an office assistant at a dentist’s. Dr. Gregory. When I got home around six, I saw he was missing, and I began to make calls.”

Carver walked Eden through the calls to Nathan’s friends and then the subsequent phone call from the kidnapper. Next he asked for her phone. “I’ll see if our guys need it for anything,” he said. “Lieutenant Mullen said you saw a stranger hanging around the block?”

“A few times in the past month.”

“We’ll show you some mug shots later. See if you can pinpoint the guy. We’ll also see if a sketch artist is available to come over, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Earlier you mentioned you called Nathan’s friends,” Abby said. “And that someone saw him get off the school bus?”

“Yes. A boy named Mikey.”

“And where does the bus usually drop them?” Carver asked.

“Two blocks down. It’s a quick walk home. I don’t like him walking alone, but I’m working, and the school wouldn’t add another stop by our house. I asked a few times, but maybe I didn’t try hard enough . . .”

Abby had seen this before, parents finding the little things they could have done. Small decisions morphing into lifelong regrets.

“What time does the bus drop them?” Abby asked.

“Around three fifty. It depends on the traffic.”

Carver scribbled in his notebook and glanced at Abby. “I’m going to talk to some people, get the search started. Then we can continue this talk. Do you all need anything?”

Both Eden and Gabrielle shook their heads, the plastic water cups still full on the desk. Carver walked out of the room.

Abby wished she had a recording of the phone call between Eden and the kidnappers. Her job hung on a thousand tiny details. The tone of voice used, a word spoken out of place, a long pause. All these things gave her information, let her build an idea of the person she was handling. “I want to go over the phone conversation you had with the kidnapper again,” she said.

“It was a short conversation,” Eden said. “All he said was that they had my son, and they demanded five million dollars or they’d kill him.”

“Did he say they’ll kill him?” Abby asked.

Eden gritted her teeth in frustration. “I just said—”

“I need to know the exact words, Eden,” Abby said softly. “Did he say they would kill him? Did he say how? Or when? For example, did he say, ‘We’re going to shoot your son if you don’t get the money in three days’?”

Eden flinched. “No . . . he never said they’ll shoot him. He said . . . he said . . .”

“Take your time,” Abby said. “Close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Imagine the moment you answered the phone. Can you do that?”

“I . . . yes,” Eden said, shutting her eyes. She took a long breath. Abby matched her breathing rhythm to Eden’s and softened her voice. “Where were you when you answered the call?”

“In the kitchen. By the counter.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Abby’s words matched the pace of her breathing. “Were you standing up or sitting down?”

“I . . . I was standing. I just came from upstairs.”

Carver stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Abby shot him a quick look, and he remained silent.

“What was the first thing he said when you answered the phone?” Abby asked.

“He said my name.” Eden placed her palms on the table, seemingly to stop them from trembling.

Abby glanced at Eden’s hands, saw the multiple scratches, and identified them for what they were. She didn’t mention it. Instead, she said, “Did he say your name? Or did he ask if it was you?”

“He didn’t ask if I was Eden Fletcher, but he made it sound like it was a question.”

“So he intoned it,” Abby suggested. “Like this. Eden Fletcher?”

“Exactly. And then he said they kidnapped my son.”

“Did he say kidnapped?” Abby frowned. She doubted those were the words the man had used. Eden’s memory was fragmented by fear. They would have to take her words with a grain of salt.

“Y . . . yes. He might have said taken; I don’t remember. He definitely said they took my son.”

“And then what?”

“He said they want five million—”