“God, no,” says Mrs. Clute.

“Why did you take this job?”

She shifts. “Desperation,” she said. “Mouths to feed. You heard the shirt factory closed.”

Judy hadn’t. She doesn’t know what shirt factory Mrs. Clute is talking about. Still, she nods.

“Well, there’s no other work in Shattuck. It was this or move,” says Mrs. Clute. “And where would we go?”

“Does the rest of your family know? The Stoddards, I mean.”

Mrs. Clute nods.

“My sisters understand,” she says. “But my mother isn’t speaking to me. Said the whole family was rotten. That I’d regret it.” Mrs. Clute looks out at the lake. “Turns out she was right.”

“Mrs. Clute,” says Judy. “Do you have any idea where Barbara Van Laar has gone?”

This, the woman answers quickly. “No idea,” she says. “Truly. But I bet you her family does.”

Again, that sensation—instinct, thinks Judy.

“Why?”

“I’m speaking out of turn here,” says Mrs. Clute, “but when Bear Van Laar went missing, the family bungled the whole search from start to finish. First thing was they didn’t call searchers in until hours after the boy first disappeared. By then there were footprints all over the place, and it had rained, and any hope of tracking him was lost. For the hounds, too, it made the work more difficult.”

She holds out the thumb of her right hand, as if preparing to tally all the ways the family had erred.

“Next,” she says, “they let us Shattuckers help, but after a week they sent us off. Flew in a team of searchers from the Sierra Madres, instead. Chartered a private plane and everything. Paid them handsomely, from what I heard.”

“Did they pay the local searchers, too?”

Mrs. Clute scoffs. “Hardly,” she says. “They were treated as if they worked for the family already. Even those that didn’t, those that missed their jobs to help. And the irony is, those searchers from California had no idea what they were doing. They’d never seen terrain like ours before. Never seen underbrush so thick. They turned tail and left without finding a single trace of the boy.”

She smiles, almost in triumph, and then becomes aware of herself.

“Now listen,” says Mrs. Clute. “I feel terrible for the family. If they’re innocent—which they very well might be—it’s an honest sin, what they went through. But what I’ll never forgive them for is not clearing my father’s name. After he died, they just let it be—presumed that he was the one who killed Bear. And that they’d most likely not find the boy, because you can’t ask questions of a dead man.”

She glances over each shoulder, and then continues. “I’ve seen someone on the grounds who was here before, when Bear went missing. LaRochelle’s his name. I remember him from when they were making the case against my father. He’s a liar. I wouldn’t trust him, if I were you.”

Judy keeps her head very still. To nod, even slightly, seems incorrect. But she understands what the woman is saying.

Mrs. Clute says, “Do you have children?”

“I don’t.”

“All right. Well, if you ever do, remember this conversation,” says Mrs. Clute. “Remember my words. And ask yourself—would you stop searching as early as they did?”

Judy looks down, embarrassed suddenly by the depth of emotion in Mrs. Clute’s gaze.

“Would you ever?” she says, once more.

Both are silent for a pause.

“I’ll have to go back inside now,” says Mrs. Clute. “Lots to do.”

Judy nods. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me? Anything else I should know?”

Mrs. Clute thinks. “Only thing I can think of is no one in that family likes that little girl. Barbara. Neglect, is what I’d call it. Before she went down to the summer camp, she used to wander into the kitchen for something to eat. Lost-looking, in her own house. I’d feed her whenever I could. Her mother didn’t like it. Used to tell me to stop giving her food. I’d nod and pretend to be listening, but I always liked her visits. Barbara’s an odd girl, dresses strangely, but she’s the only one here who took the time to learn my name. She’s a good soul, is what I think.”

“Thank you,” says Judy.

Mrs. Clute nods.

Judy remembers Hayes’s words from earlier. She’s been making good notes, but she wants to be certain she’s gotten her facts correct.

“Mrs. Clute, would you mind if I did my best to write up everything you told me? You could look it over, and sign it if it’s correct.”

The woman looks at her, horrified. “Never in a million years,” she says. “I don’t regret telling you what I told you. But that’s the only help I can give.”

•   •   •

This, Judy thinks, feels more important than the map does at the moment. She walks down to the Command Post, looking for Hayes at the lead desk. Outside, two investigators are sitting on the steps, writing out statements on their clipboards.

“Hayes inside?” asks Judy, and one of them nods.

“Wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” he says. “LaRochelle’s been letting him have it for ten minutes.”

Judy pauses. Muted yelling, through the door.

There’s no good place for her to sit.

“Would you tell him I’m looking for him when they’re done?” she asks.

“Sure, honey,” says the other. Not looking up.

“I’m Investigator Luptack,” says Judy.

“Great.”

•   •   •

While she waits for Hayes, Judy wanders the grounds of Camp Emerson, doing the work that LaRochelle assigned her that morning. She brings her pad of paper and her pen with her. She stops in front of every building she can spot, sketching its footprint, as if from above. She labels the ones whose use is clear.

When she’s finished, she turns northwest, toward a set of farm buildings that are no longer in use.

They’ve been searched thoroughly, she knows. And to the best of her knowledge, they aren’t used to house anybody.

Still—with nothing else to do until Hayes and LaRochelle are finished—she walks in their direction, pad of paper tucked under her arm.