After searching their son’s backpack and his bedroom, collecting a few things we want to take a closer look at, Astra and I sat down with Peter’s parents, Susan and Dutton Olange, who are sitting across the table from us. They’re huddled together with Dutton’s arm around his wife’s shoulder, their eyes red and puffy. Susan’s face is mottled and streaked with tears, and she’s clutching a crumpled, worn tissue in her fist.

“It means that the man who took your son has been watching you all for a while,” I reply evenly. “He knew your routines, the neighborhood, and the optimal time to strike.”

She shudders, and Dutton holds her a little tighter, grief and fear creating inscrutable expressions on their faces. Susan dabs at her eyes with her tissue and sniffs.

“This is a good neighborhood… a good community,” Dutton says, his voice soft. “Who would do something like this?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” I say. “Now, have either of you noticed anybody unusual in the neighborhood? Somebody who doesn’t belong?”

The couple shares a look with each other, then both shake their heads. “No,” Susan says. “There wasn’t anybody out of place that we noticed. No strange cars or anything like that. Not that I noticed.”

“Not that I noticed either,” Dutton echoes his wife.

“I saw that the rear of your property backs up to some woods,” I say.

Susan nods. “Yes. It’s the nature preserve.”

“That’s probably where he surveilled your family from,” I tell them. “I’m guessing he spent some time back there learning your routines.”

Susan covers her mouth with her trembling hands as fresh tears spill down her face. “Oh my God. How could we have not seen this?”

“It’s not your fault, Mrs. Olange. You couldn’t have known. People who do things like this… they make a habit of not being seen,” Astra says softly.

The squelch and crackle of the police radios echo into the dining room as troopers from the state’s Criminal Investigation Bureau make their way through the house collecting evidence. They’re not going to find anything in the house. The driveway is the crime scene. Not that they’re going to find anything out there either. Our guy is methodical and disciplined. He’s clean. But the troopers are already upset enough at us bigfooting our way onto the case and taking over that I don’t feel like antagonizing them further by pointing that out, so I just let them do their thing.

“Okay, walk me through what happened again,” I ask.

She draws in a breath that’s shaking as hard as her hands and dabs her eyes again. “I—I came home from the office and found Peter’s backpack lying in the driveway. When I didn’t find him in the house, I tried calling his cellphone, but it’s in his backpack. I was worried, and his bag being in the driveway made no sense, so I checked the security feeds. When I saw what happened, I called the police and then my husband.”

“Okay, has Peter mentioned anybody following him around? Anybody who’s given him a strange feeling lately? Anybody he doesn’t know turning up in strange places?” Astra asks.

Susan shakes her head. “No. Nothing like that.”

“He hasn’t said anything like that to me either,” Dutton replies.

“And neither of you has noticed anybody you don’t know watching you?”

They shake their heads but don’t say anything. They both look exhausted. Emotionally spent. Their fear and grief over watching their son be snatched right out of their driveway is obviously starting to take a toll on them.

“So, what’s going to happen now, Agents? Are we going to get a ransom call? Is that what this is about? We’re willing to pay whatever they want,” Dutton says.

Astra glances at me, her face troubled. Senator Barlow still hasn’t received a ransom demand after smiley-face man snatched Ashley, so I have no reason to think the Olanges will get one. This isn’t about money. It’s about something else, but I just don’t know what it is yet and won’t until we can figure out what the connection between Ashley Barlow and Peter Olange is.

“We don’t know just yet,” I tell them. “We’re going to let the Maryland State Police set up a listening post in your house, though, just in case a call does come in.”

Susan pins me to my seat with an icy stare, and I see a flicker of something in her gaze. She’s sharp. Very sharp. I get the feeling she can see through us and knows there are big parts of this story that we’re leaving out of the telling.

“You don’t think one’s coming in, though, do you?” she asks.

“I really can’t say right now, Mrs. Olange. It’s best if we just let this all play out,” I respond.

“What is going on, Agents?” Susan asks. “I’m getting the feeling you know who this man is. Have you dealt with him before?”

“What?” Dutton asks, a look of surprise on his face. “Has he abducted somebody else?”

“Again, I’m sorry that we can’t tell you more right now,” I reply. “But we are going to do everything in our power to bring Peter home. I promise you that.”

“You can’t tell us more… so, what you’re saying is he has done this before,” Susan says.

Her eyes are fast and probing, and she seems able to see through all the smokescreens we’re throwing up to get to the truth behind our words.

“Mrs. Olange, what I’m saying is there is still a lot we don’t know just yet, least of all the identity of the man who took your son. But I promise you that we won’t stop until we’re able to get you some answers,” I reply diplomatically. “Thank you for your time, and I promise that we’ll be in touch just as soon as we have something.”

Dutton pulls his wife toward him, and she lays her head on his shoulder, her body quaking as she quietly sobs. The man’s face clouds over, and his eyes shimmer with tears of his own, but he’s doing his best to be strong for her. Astra and I get up from the table and say a quiet goodbye to the shell-shocked couple before heading out of the house. Before we get to the SUV, though, we’re intercepted by a large man with broad shoulders and the sort of frame that would give most bodybuilders a run for their money.

The man in the state police uniform steps in front of us, blocking our way. His dark eyes glitter beneath the brim of his felt Stetson, and he’s working the toothpick in the corner of his mouth furiously. He’s got a warm, umber complexion and a thick, dark mustache on his upper lip. The gold oak leaf clusters on his lapels as well as the medals on his dark brown uniform jacket tell me he’s a man of some station within the state police.

“Major George Yerkis,” he says around his toothpick, his voice a rich baritone. “Commander of the Criminal Investigation Bureau.”

“Unit Chief Blake Wilder, SSA Astra Russo,” I reply. “FBI.”

“Uh-huh. And what is the Bureau doing here for what is a local matter? Little outside your jurisdiction, ain’t it?”

“It’s actually not,” I say.

“How’s that?”

“I can’t get into specifics with you, but the offender has crossed state lines. That puts it squarely within our jurisdiction,” I reply. “Now, we’re not going to prevent you from doing your thing here. In fact, I was going to suggest you post somebody up here just in case there’s a ransom call. But that’s your choice. We won’t get in your way so long as you don’t get in ours.”

“Uh-huh,” he says and keeps working his toothpick.

“We’ll provide you with information as is appropriate. We’ll keep you in the loop as much as we can, Major Yerkis,” I tell him. “I hope that will go both ways.”

“Sure,” he says.

I can tell by the look on his face and the slightly condescending tone in his voice that he has no intention of sharing any intel they may gather with us. He’s obviously upset that we’re here playing in his sandbox. That’s fine though. He’s not the first local cop who doesn’t like working with the Feds, and he’s certainly not going to be the last. I’m not one to waste time or energy stressing about it.

“Nice to meet you, Major,” I say.

His gaze lingers on us, his lips slightly curled down. I’m not really sure what he’s doing, but if the silent act is meant to be intimidating, it’s not working. He finally pulls the toothpick out of his mouth and drops it into one of the pockets of his jacket.

“Uh-huh. You too,” he replies. “Drive carefully now.”

Astra and I climb into the SUV and close the doors behind us. She turns to me and shrugs.

“He seems nice,” she says dryly.

“Right?”