“Thanks, Tom.” Will was already turning back to the computer as Tom left, but he didn’t expect to find anything private, not when Miriama knew Josie also used this computer. Still, he had a quick look. The only emails on it related to the café.

Miriama must have an email ­account—­if nothing else, she’d have needed one to apply for the ­internship—­but chances were high it was a web account she nearly always used from her phone. He’d found no emails on her home computer either, and her browser history and bookmarks hadn’t included any webmail sites. The same proved true here.

Given Miriama’s age, her reliance on her phone for communication was unsurprising.

Photo editing software made up the bulk of what was on this computer. Will checked Miriama’s current projects, then slotted in the memory cards from her cameras, but nothing jumped out. Shot after shot taken in pursuit of her signature portraits, plus several finalized ­images—­including one of a ­bare-­chested Dominic in bed, his smile intimate, and a stunning one of Pastor Mark sitting ­stoop-­shouldered on a church bench, but none of it told him how to find her.

He took the memory cards regardless, and made a mental note to dig deeper later. Right now, he had another priority: he needed to follow up on Fidel Cox. Locking up the café, he returned to the police station.

The system spat out the correct case file after a single inquiry.

According to the notes of the officer who’d driven in to record Matilda’s complaint on behalf of Miriama, the police had sent Fidel’s photo out across the country and received exactly zero tips in response. Fidel was an experienced hunter, so everyone figured he’d “gone bush” until the heat died down.

It had probably not helped the search that Fidel Cox was one of the most nondescript individuals Will had ever seen. His mug shot, taken in the aftermath of a drunken brawl a year before his molestation of Miriama, showed a man with pale brown skin, black hair, and brown eyes. He was neither big nor small, neither tall nor short. He had no distinguishing marks, no tattoos, no scars. No feature on his face that stood out.

Fidel Cox was a man who could blend in anywhere. If he hadn’t wanted to slink off into the wild, all he would’ve had to do was change his name and grow a beard or shave his head. Either would’ve dramatically altered his looks.

Was it possible he’d come through Golden Cove and been missed?

Will had already made a short call to the tourism center on the way back from Matilda’s, been told that aside from the Japanese couple Nikau had taken to see the ­gold-­mining shacks, Golden Cove hadn’t had any visitors in the previous five days. As far as the center was aware, there were no hikers on the local trails, either. ­Still…

He picked up the phone and called the tourism center again. It was Glenda Anderson who answered this time, not her ­part-­time student assistant. The ­fifty-­something woman with bright pink hair and a penchant for stilettos was a legend in the town after her years dancing in the cabaret show of a cruise liner.

“Have they found that poor child?” she asked, clearly recognizing Will’s number. “My heart’s just sick about it. She is such a sweetie. Always saves me a piece of that cheesecake I love.”

Will’s eyes went to the trash bin where he’d thrown the takeout container in which Miriama had brought him his carrot cake. “No,” he said. “But I’m hoping you can help me with something.”

“Anything for you, you handsome young man.” The flirtatious statement lacked its usual spark, more rote than anything. “Shall I get on to the computer?”

“Yes.” First, Will repeated the same questions he’d asked the assistant, in case the youth had missed something. When that all failed to pan out, he moved on. “Do you have any records of a male tourist going onto the trails over the past six months?” A very long window, but per Matilda’s words to the responding officer, Fidel Cox had been intimately familiar with this area and with living wild.

“Well now,” Glenda said to the accompaniment of the ­click-­clack of her keyboard, “that’ll be a long list since it covers four months of the tourist season. Shall I email it to you?”

“Yes.” Will stared at Fidel’s mug shot again, thought about how the man was a chameleon. “Can you also email through their identification?” The tourism center made it a point to request some form of photo ID that could be copied and kept on file just in case things went wrong and searchers had to be provided with an image.

Will didn’t think Fidel Cox would’ve given them any real identification or that he’d have even checked in with Glenda and her ­people—­odds were, if Fidel had come back into Golden Cove, he’d slipped into the bush miles from the town itself. But Will would be careless in his duties if he didn’t clear this particular avenue of investigation. And not all criminals were smart. Any number had been caught because of stupid errors.

Two hours later, he’d gone through every single one of the names and ID photos and come up with nothing. If Fidel Cox had returned to the area, he’d done so in a way that wouldn’t be noticed. None of the other hikers appeared suspicious: every single one had provided either a passport or driver’s license as ID and a quick search on various data ­banks—­or via social media ­profiles—­told him none had lied.

Not ready to give up yet, Will called a colleague of his who worked in the crimes against children area. “Hamish,” he said when the phone was picked up on the other end. “I need a favor.”

“You never call, you never write, and now you want a favor,” the lawyer said in his usual dry tone. “This keeps going on and I might get suspicious that you’re just using me.”

“We have a ­use-­use relationship.”

“True.” The sound of creaking, as if Hamish was tilting back his chair as he so often did while he sat in his office. “But you used to buy me a beer now and then before you went full ­hermit-­mode.”

“Put it on my tab.” Will wondered when he’d ­be… equalized enough to go back into the world he’d once not only inhabited but owned with a casual expectation that he could control it. He had the feeling the answer was never.

“Maybe I’ll come visit you in that West Coast town of yours,” Hamish threatened. “I looked it ­up—­the wife thinks it might make for a nice romantic getaway when the weather’s a bit less pissy. On the flip side, my ­middle-­aged body isn’t keen on going hiking or participating in the various dangerous activities on offer. Can you fish there?”

“There’s a spot on the rocks that’s probably safe enough if you wear a life jacket and hook yourself onto the cliffs with anchor ropes.”

Snorting, Hamish said, “What can I do for you, my good friend who I never see?”

“I’m trying to trace a man named Fidel Cox. He was never prosecuted, but he was implicated in a crime against a child.” Hamish was a walking encyclopedia when it came to men and women who might target innocence. “I’m going to email you his photo. It’s five years old, so keep that in mind.”

A short pause, while Hamish waited for the photo to download on his end. “Got it,” he said. “I’ll run it through my private database. I’ve also got this fancy software that’ll age Mr. Cox. Said software is from sources who shall not be named because they might be providers of illegal ­knockoffs—­but tell anyone and I’ll deny it. It’ll take a while. I’ll call you back, whatever the result.”