Yes. They’d already gone door to door through half the block with no result. Daniela Hernandez was the best eyewitness so far. Now, finally, they had something better. Carver followed the officer to a small house close to the street corner. No light illuminated the front yard, and Carver could barely see the shadowy forms of a discarded hose and a rake on the ground. The officer knocked on the door, and it instantly opened, as if the man had been waiting on the other side, his hand on the doorknob.

“Mr. Doyle, this is Detective Carver,” the officer said.

Doyle—pale, tall, and sinewy—said, “Well, like I told the officer, I saw Nathan—”

“Sir, is it possible to talk inside?” Carver asked politely.

Doyle hesitated for a second, then said, “Sure, come in.”

Carver and the officer stepped inside the house. Doyle closed the door behind them. The house seemed bare and neglected. Carver glimpsed an ashtray brimming with cigarette stubs on a small wooden table in the living room. A single beige armchair faced a television set, and that was pretty much the extent of the living room furniture. The entire place was stuffy, every window draped, every door shut.

“Like I told the officer,” Doyle said again, “I saw that little boy get inside a car.”

“Good,” Carver said, ceremoniously pulling out his notebook. He didn’t need it; he was recording the conversation. But the notebook made people pay attention. “What’s your name again?”

“Frank. Frank Doyle.”

“Okay, Frank. When was this?”

“At two minutes to four. I was in the kitchen making a fresh pot of coffee, and I looked out the window. And I noticed the car, which instantly drew my attention.”

“Why did it draw your attention?”

“I know the cars of the people on the block, and it wasn’t anyone’s car. It was sort of muddy. And it stopped in the middle of the street.”

“Muddy?”

“Yeah. Like the bottom part of the car was spattered with mud.”

“What sort of car was it?”

“It was white.”

“Did you notice the make?”

“I don’t really know a lot about cars.”

“And the license plate?”

“I didn’t get a good look; it was far away. But it was covered in mud.”

“And then what happened?”

“The driver talked to the boy.”

“Which boy?”

“Nathan Fletcher.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“I’ve been living on this block for three years,” Frank said. “I know the Fletcher family. It was Nathan Fletcher.”

“So the driver stopped at the side of the road and talked to Nathan. And then what happened?”

“They talked for a minute or two. And then Nathan got inside the car.”

“Are you sure Nathan got inside? The driver didn’t grab him?”

“I’m sure. The driver opened the passenger door, and Nathan got in.”

“Can you describe the driver?”

“I didn’t see him too well. I’m pretty sure he was a white guy.”

“Could you tell his age? Anything about him?”

“No. It was pretty far away. I could barely see anything from the kitchen window. And Nathan smiled when he talked to this guy; it seemed like he maybe knew him.”

Carver jotted the details, using the time to think it through. He would show the man a few car model images later, see if he could get an actual make. If Nathan knew the man, it tightened the circle of suspects significantly. A relative? A teacher? A parent of a friend?

“Can I see the kitchen window?”

“Sure.” Doyle led them to the kitchen. A faint smell of stale food and burned oil hovered in the air. The man gestured at the window, a dirty rectangular pane of glass facing the street.

“Where was the car exactly when you saw it?”

Doyle pointed. “See the tree over there? By the trash can? There.”

A few steps from home. Carver peered out the window. To see the mentioned tree he had to lean to the left. Doyle hadn’t just glanced out the window like he’d claimed. He’d had to have leaned uncomfortably against the kitchen counter to see the exchange between Nathan and the driver. Something must have felt wrong to him. If he’d only called Eden Fletcher that moment . . .

People, Carver often found, didn’t want to make a scene. They didn’t want to seem as if they were sticking their nose where it didn’t belong. Frank Doyle had probably rationalized the events at the time, told himself it was Nathan’s uncle picking him up. How dumb would he sound if he called Eden Fletcher hysterically saying that Nathan had just driven off with a stranger?

And then he’d carried on with his day. While Nathan Fletcher had disappeared.

CHAPTER 14

Eden wasn’t even sure why she was lying in bed. Was she just going through the motions? Or setting an example for Gabrielle? Sleep was completely unthinkable. No matter how late it was, she couldn’t stop her churning mind. She couldn’t even slow it down.

Nathan had to be terrified, trapped in a strange place with these awful men. Her sweet Nathan, who’d had nightmares for three days in a row after seeing Disney’s The Lion King, was in a basement, or a dark room, or a cage somewhere, crying for his mom.