“Let me see that map,” he says.

Judy retrieves the pad of paper from the wall she’s leaned it against. Hayes takes it, inspects the several pages she’s drawn on: the house, the camp, the outbuildings. Names above the buildings she was able to populate.

Hayes asks for a pen. Writes Unoccupied above the farm buildings. Judy’s face reddens. For a long while, he says nothing. Then he points to a northern spot on one of the maps. “Let’s add the observer’s cabin here,” he says. “We can add McLellan’s name to it.”

“Why wouldn’t Louise Donnadieu have known McLellan was on the grounds all summer?” says Judy. “Weren’t they together?”

“No idea,” says Hayes. “Maybe he lied to her.”

“Where does she think he was?” asks Judy.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “But we can find out. She’s still in Wells until they remand her to Albion. I’ll stop in.”

Judy nods. “What about McLellan himself?” she says. “Do you have tabs on him?”

Hayes confirms that they do. One investigator from every shift has been assigned to sit in the parking lot of the hotel he’s staying in, keeping a lookout for him and his parents.

“The problem is,” says Hayes, “no matter how much evidence we stack up—without a body, or the living girl, he’s unarrestable. All we have him on are fairly minor charges. A DUI. Possession. With a lawyer father, that’s not gonna keep him in our sights for long.”

“But the uniform,” says Judy.

“Still maintaining the Donnadieu girl asked him to dispose of the bag that held it.”

•   •   •

At nearly seven p.m., exhausted, Judy finally walks to her car.

She points her Beetle down the long dirt driveway of Self-Reliance, then left onto State Route 29, heading south. Now that Judy is alone, there is nothing to distract her from her earlier humiliation, and she presses her eyes closed against it, briefly. Says Goddammit several times. All those state troopers. Captain LaRochelle himself. Hayes. All of them watching her, skeptical. Laughing, even.

If she had just walked up those stairs, she thinks. If she had just listened longer.

Her eyes are heavy. It’s been a long day in the heat. When she was promoted to investigator, she hadn’t realized how much more human interaction she’d be tasked with. As a trooper, she’d enjoyed the long stretches of solitude that came with sitting at the edge of the highway, waiting.

She turns up the radio as loud as she can take it. Van McCoy commands her to Hustle. Sleepily, she tries to comply.

•   •   •

Judy wakes up with a jolt. It’s full dark. She’s still on Route 29. Her hands are in her lap. The car is turned off. She’s still alive.

But apparently, she pulled to the side of the road and fell asleep, without having any memory of doing so. Without locking her doors.

A sudden rush of adrenaline and fear.

Imagine, thinks Judy—imagine if she hadn’t pulled over.

Wide awake now, Judy puts her blinker on, checks her blind spot, and pulls back onto the road.

Up ahead of her, she notices a sign: Shattuck Township, 6 miles.

Beneath it, two small icons: food and lodging.

•   •   •

Judy makes a right at the foot of the off-ramp. After a minute, she spies a tiny roadside motel: neon sign outside it; in-ground pool nearby.

The woman at the front desk is reading a novel. She looks up when Judy enters.

“I was wondering if there might be a room available?” says Judy.

The woman nods.

Judy feels self-conscious, suddenly. She isn’t sure how often single women check into motels around here, but she imagines the ones who do are a certain type.

So she volunteers, unasked: “I’m a police officer. An investigator. I’m working on a case nearby.”

“Okay,” says the woman. But she looks slightly more interested than she did before.

“Are there phones?” Judy asks.

“There are,” says the woman, “but the ones in the rooms only connect to the front desk. If you wanna call out, you gotta use the pay phone over there.” She points.

•   •   •

Her mother answers.

“Judyta?” she says, without waiting.

“Hi, Ma.”

“Judyta, I’ve been worried sick. Please tell me you’re all right.”

The sound of her own name in her mother’s voice—her mother, who came over at fifteen, who worked so hard to drop any trace of an accent, who refused to speak Polish to her children, who despite all of this still bears the weight of strangers clocking her as foreign—suddenly makes Judy want to cry.

“I’m all right, Mama. I’m just tired. Long day today.”

She can hear her father in the background, asking, What time will she be home?

“Ma,” says Judy, “I know Daddy won’t like this. But I have to move out. I can’t live at home anymore. Not with this job.”

Silence. “Where are you now?”

“I’m at a motel. It’s called”—Judy checks the sign above the counter—“the Alcott Family Inn. It’s close to the case I’m working.”

“At a what?” says her mother. “Judyta Luptack, did you just say you’re at a—”

“Don’t tell Dad,” says Judy. “Please.”

In the background: Where is she? At a what?