There were windows in this room, but they were darkened by closed shutters with tight slats and exterior latches. She couldn’t tell if it was day or night outside.

The bed she was on was so firm that it felt like a plank of wood.

She stood up from it unsteadily. She was wearing a dress, she saw. Its material was stiff, as if soaked and then hung out to dry.

Toilet, she thought. The image of one. The urge to urinate was suddenly so powerful that she doubled over.

Where was she? She had the sensation that the answer would come to her shortly, and with it some terrible knowledge that perhaps she did not want. Slowly, she straightened again.

There was no toilet. Only a few meager trappings that indicated she was in someone’s bedroom, long disused. A sturdy dresser. A bowl for water. A mirror: this she avoided completely.

She saw a door. She moved to it, pushed against it: locked. She knew somehow that it would be.

She lay down on the floor, barring entry to the thought. Something terrible had happened, she knew. If she went back to sleep, she wouldn’t have to learn it.

She closed her eyes.

The door opened.

Through it came Peter’s father.

Judyta

1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day Three

It’s nearing the end of her shift. She has to find Hayes; she can’t risk talking to anyone else about what Mrs. Van Laar told her. She can’t afford to be wrong in front of LaRochelle again; not after yesterday.

Perhaps you should interview him. He’s such an interesting man.

•   •   •

When she reaches the Director’s Cabin, two investigators, smoking outside, tell her that Hayes is gone for the day.

“Shit,” she says, and the investigators straighten.

“You got a mouth on you,” one says.

She doesn’t reply.

“Anyway,” says the other, “he left this for you.” Begrudgingly, he holds out a piece of paper with a phone number on it. Denny. Home, the paper says.

“You two got something goin’ on?” the first investigator says. His buddy smothers a grin.

Judy ignores them. Pushes into the house.

•   •   •

Alone, she feels better.

There’s a long hallway that runs to the back of the house from the main room. At the end of it is a bathroom—practically destroyed, now, by its constant use over the past few days.

But there are other rooms, too. And according to Mrs. Van Laar—one of them is, or has been, Vic Hewitt’s.

Judy walks down the hallway, toe to heel, making as little noise as possible.

She tries the first door. Inside is a neatly made bed, a stack of reading material on the nightstand, a magazine called Camp Life. She opens the closet door; inside she finds several articles of androgynous clothing and a neat row of fishing hats.

At this point, Judy has no guess as to whether she’s in Vic’s room or T.J.’s. She walks to a dark wooden dresser and pulls open one of the two small top drawers.

Here, at last, is her answer. The undergarments are distinctly female: high-cut briefs, one brassiere with tags still on it. One pair of woolen stockings that look similarly unworn.

She moves across the hallway. Opens another bedroom door. There is no doubt, this time, as to whose room she’s in: a metal cane leans against a wall. A straight row of men’s walking shoes is lined up against another. Most curiously, a pair of dentures swims in a tall glass of liquid on a bedside table.

Which raises the question: If Vic Hewitt’s dentures are here—then where is Vic Hewitt?

Judy moves toward Vic’s dresser. But instead of clothing, she finds what looks like a trove of black-and-white photographs. Most are of children: T.J. when she was young. Barbara, too. And Bear: so many of them are of Bear Van Laar, in various poses, fishing, swimming, standing sturdy on cross-country skis.

The one that intrigues her most is a group shot. She squints, trying to recognize anyone she can in the photograph. She knows for certain that two are Barbara’s grandparents, the elder Mr. and Mrs. Van Laar. They stand in the back row. She smiles; he doesn’t.

The youngest boy in the picture, she guesses, is Bear.

The woman looking down at him, lovingly, is his mother, Alice; the man standing to her right is his father.

And standing off to one side, a part of and apart from the rest of the group, are T.J. and her father, Vic.

Judy turns the picture over. On the back is written, in light pencil: Blackfly Good-by. 1961.

The year of Bear’s disappearance.

Judy shudders. Puts the photos back in the drawer. Walks out into the main room again.

•   •   •

It’s time, she knows, to tell someone about the tip Mrs. Van Laar gave her. She fishes a piece of paper out from her pocket, goes to the phone in the Command Post, and dials Denny Hayes’s home phone number, as instructed.

A woman answers. His wife, no doubt. In the background, Judy can hear children’s voices.

“Hi,” says Judy. “Is Investigator Hayes there, please?”

A hitch in the woman’s voice. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Investigator Luptack,” she says. “I’m—I work with him.”

“I didn’t know he had a lady—coworker,” says Mrs. Hayes. “I didn’t know they let ladies be investigators.”

“Well,” says Judy, “they do.”

“Anyway, he’s not home yet,” says Mrs. Hayes. “You can leave me a number if you want.”