Liv’s tradition was to give thanks and then say a blessing for each of the children. When she got to Danny, Evan noticed Maggie’s eyes fixed on him, as if she were waiting to see his reaction. As if trying to discern whether the only thing on his mind was the case. He gave his best poker face, but his daughter knew him too well.

Later Evan sat at the edge of the bed, contemplating his wife in the faint light seeping in from the en suite. Liv was naked and had kicked off all the sheets and blankets, out cold from the sun and cocktails and wine at dinner. She was a stunningly beautiful woman.

Evan was still buzzed himself, and didn’t want to leave her. But he needed to get this out of his system. The plan was simple: He’d sneak over to the Moloko Bar, where the call had been made, check things out, confirm Charlotte wasn’t there, and come home. The rational side of him knew it was crazy—understood that Charlotte was dead—but with Evan, reason often gave way to desperation.

He slipped into his shorts and T-shirt from earlier, and padded quietly out of the room. The map app on his phone said the bar was about a ten-minute bike ride away.

“Where are you going?”

Evan felt a thunderbolt rip through him at the voice. Maggie was sitting on the couch in the dark.

“Hey, what are you doing up?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Evan looked at her.

“You don’t have to answer—I know where. I’m coming.” She stood.

“No way.”

Maggie looked at him. “I suppose we could wake up Mom and ask her.”

Evan narrowed his eyes. Man, he loved this kid.

“Seriously, let me come.”

“It could be dangerous.”

“Well then, I should definitely wake Mom.” Maggie headed toward the master bedroom.

“Wait,” Evan said. He deliberated for a moment. But once his daughter grabbed onto something, she didn’t let go. He knew where she’d acquired that trait.

“You’ll wait outside.”

Maggie nodded.

“And if I say you go home, you listen.”

She nodded again.

“And—”

“I got it, Dad. It’s only eleven thirty. Trust me, the place is gonna be packed. It’s Tulum, not Naperville.”

Evan let out an exasperated sigh. “I mean it. If I say you need to leave, then…”

Maggie smiled, already tying the laces on her sneakers.

They rode the bikes along the dark road, Evan wondering if this was a mistake. Maggie was in front of him, her hair in a thick braid swaying back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. For some reason he thought of the out-of-place clock in Dr. Silverstein’s office. He saw lights up ahead.

When they reached the intersection, Maggie waited for Evan, eyeing the map on her phone. “Not too much farther,” she said. “The place is just off the main drag.”

They continued on the dark asphalt, music floating in the wind now, the lights in the distance brighter. Maggie led the charge as they pedaled around clusters of pedestrians and to the Moloko Bar, which was just around the bend from an outdoor cantina. Even this late, the area was bustling.

Maggie stopped across the street from Moloko. She looked conflicted, like she wanted to say something.

“Everything okay?” Evan asked.

“Just be careful, all right?”

Evan smiled, got off the bike, and crossed the street.

The doorman looked at him wearily, as if Evan was the sad old guy at the club. But he waved Evan through.

Inside was what he’d expected: large crowd. Pulsing dance music. The smell of perfume and sweat. He scanned the faces, looking for her. It was at times like this, unexpected, unusual, that he had moments of clarity. Charlotte wasn’t here. He was chasing a ghost. Wasting his final days before Magpie went to college. Squandering his life with Liv and Tommy. Ruining his relationship with Matt. He needed to let this go.

But he was here. Might as well …

He navigated through the crowd and made it to the bartender. The barman had tattoo sleeves and a hipster beard. He wasn’t Mexican, but it wasn’t clear he was American, either.

The music was loud. The guy shouted over the noise, “What can I get you, mate?” He had an Australian accent.

Evan laid a five-hundred-peso bill on the bar, if only because that was what they did in the movies and TV when they were trying to get information. He held out his phone, displaying a photo of Charlotte.

“I’m trying to find my daughter,” he lied. He assumed the bartender might be more sympathetic to a father than if he thought Evan was a cop or a private investigator or a creepy old guy looking for a young woman.

Evan waited for him to say he’d never seen her before, that he was sorry he couldn’t help.

The bartender smoothed a hand over his beard, then closed his fist around the money.

“Yeah, I’ve seen her.”

CHAPTER 51

SARAH KELLER

Keller awoke to the buzz of her phone. She was disoriented for a moment, trying to comprehend why her nightstand was different, the window of her bedroom not where it should be, then she remembered. Nebraska. The motel. The old alarm clock said it was only 11:40 P.M., but she’d been in a deep sleep. She was going to ignore the call, but it might be Bob, an emergency with the twins.

The number was from Mexico. Keller sat up, switched on the lamp, swiped the device.

“It’s Carlita Escobar.”

Keller’s thoughts were still fuzzy, and she blanked for a second. But then the fog lifted. Of course, the consular officer, Carlita “No Relation” Escobar.

“Hi, yes, thanks for getting back to me.”

“I’m sorry, did I wake you? You said to call when I got news, no matter the time. I can call back tomorrow.”

“No, please…”

“I’ve identified the girl.”

“Hank?” Keller asked.

“Her real name is Joanna Grace. She went by Joey. It turns out she is from Oklahoma, but she’s no hairdresser.”

Keller felt a rush of adrenaline. The fake persona confirmed that her meeting with Matt was no accident, that she’d lured him off with her, likely to deliver him to someone, until she apparently had a change of heart.

“She’s a party girl,” Escobar continued. “Works for a company out of New York.”

“You mean a prostitute?” Keller was on her feet now, pacing.

“Not quite. I checked into it, and her employer is basically like a leasing company. But instead of renting products, it’s pretty girls. Nightclubs and resorts pay to have American girls hang out at their establishments; it’s like a temp service.”

“That’s an actual thing, go figure.”

“In my day, the clubs had ladies’ night, but I guess that’s not enough anymore,” Escobar said. “I suspect some of the girls make money on the side doing more than looking pretty, but it’s otherwise a legitimate business.”

“Did you speak with her?”

There was a long beat of silence. “No. The reason we identified her so quickly was that some of the other girls in her troupe—they’re all working out of a club called Moloko—they reported her missing.”

Keller felt her stomach drop. She stopped pacing, opened the curtains, and looked outside for no reason. Several news satellite trucks were parked in the lot. “Let me guess: no one has seen her since the night with Matt Pine.”

“That’s right.”

“I suppose she could’ve taken off. Matt said she got cold feet, so maybe she’s hiding from whoever she was working with.”

“She and the other girls stayed in rooms above the club. We searched her bunk and locker. She left her passport. And the rental car—she shared it with two other girls—was found abandoned in Chan Chemuyil, about fifteen minutes from Tulum.” Escobar paused. “I’m sorry.”

Keller let out a breath. “What else do we know about her? Any priors? Known associates?”

“She had a prior for cocaine possession in Oklahoma, but that’s it. Nothing that identifies the man with her in the photo. She’s had a tough run, Ms. Grace. Her father died in the Oklahoma City bombing when she was young, she spent her teenage years in foster care, then worked at a gentleman’s club, which is where she probably got hooked up with the party girl company.”

“Nothing on the man with the cleft lip scar?” Keller’s blood pressure was rising, her jaw clenched. She shut the curtains and sat on the bed. She needed to calm down, think clearly.

“He’s a ghost. It does look like he rented the place at the address you sent me.”

The address tenacious Maggie Pine had found through a cell phone aggregation service. Keller had a random thought: Maybe Maggie would’ve become an FBI agent.

Escobar continued. “He gave the last name Smith, paid in cash. The owner never dealt with him in person—he sent the money by messenger—but the neighbor saw him a few times. And the rental property, it was scrubbed down with bleach. I don’t think it has ever been so clean.”

“Cleaning crews usually aren’t that detailed. I can send a team and—”

“I don’t think you’re hearing me. The place was clean. And not by any maid service. More like a forensics expert.”

“A professional,” Keller said. It was consistent with the staged crime scene, the wiped phones.

Escobar said, “Makes sense.”

“CCTV cameras in the area?” Keller knew the answer, but had to ask.

“I’m sorry. But this isn’t Manhattan, Agent Keller.”