“We have Mrs. Foster’s recent credit card. We’ve developed a list of stores she frequented, and uniforms are running down security footage,” Hughes said.

“Key in on dates around the first week of July,” Zoe said. “We have a report that Hadley Foster became more agitated about that time.”

“Will do,” Hughes said.

“What about arrests? Do any of the Fosters have arrest records?” Vaughan asked.

“Mark did missionary work in high school and then married Hadley. From then onward, they were the perfect couple. Skylar is their only child. The girl has no record here, but I’m reaching out to police in Portland, Oregon.”

“Thanks. Keep us posted on the financials,” Vaughan said to Hughes. “I know the uniforms have been knocking on doors all morning, but I still want to talk to some of the neighbors.”

“Right,” Hughes said. “Will keep you posted.”

Twenty minutes later, Vaughan and Zoe were knocking on the door of the house that faced the Fosters’ backyard. It belonged to Rodney and Sarah Pollard.

She glanced at Vaughan and noticed the frown lines around his eyes had deepened. Cases involving a missing child were stressful to everyone working the case, but for a guy like Vaughan, with a teenage son, it had to hit close to home.

Seconds later, footsteps sounded in the brick two-story house. Like the Fosters’ house, the Pollards’ home had been built about sixty or seventy years ago. The lawn was small but carefully manicured.

The door opened to a petite woman with salt-and-pepper hair draped over narrow shoulders. Worry darkened her eyes as she looked up at Vaughan and then Zoe.

“Are you police?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Vaughan said. “This is FBI special agent Zoe Spencer, and I am Detective William Vaughan. We’re working the case together.”

“I’ve been worried sick since the officer knocked on my door this morning. Do you have any news about that poor family?”

“Mr. Foster is out of surgery and doing well. We’re still looking for Mrs. Foster and her daughter. May we come in?”

“Of course you can,” she said, stepping aside. “That poor family. My heart just breaks for them.”

The house was decorated with traditional Queen Anne furniture, similar to Uncle Jimmy’s tastes. The walls were painted a hunter green, more fitting with the colonial era of Alexandria, Virginia. There was a reproduction Matisse on the wall that she was tempted to look at more closely. Jimmy always said artists copying other painters signed their work in secret ways.

“How well do you know the Fosters?” Zoe asked.

“I see Hadley several times a week. We both are often coming and going at the same time, with just enough time to wave and smile. Last week, we were saying how nice it would be to go to the new wine bar on King Street. I don’t know Mark that well. He, like my husband, works long hours.”

“What does your husband do?” Vaughan asked.

“He’s a lawyer.”

“How long have you lived next to the Fosters?” Zoe asked.

“We moved here from Nevada about five years ago. And they moved here in January.”

“Do you mind if I have a look out the back of your house?” Zoe asked.

“Go right ahead. As you can see, there’s a very good view of the Fosters’ house.”

Zoe peered out the kitchen window, which overlooked the Foster house, and looked inside their family room. From this vantage point, it would have been impossible to see the front door, where Mark Foster had collapsed, or the interior entrance to the garage. And unless you were watching very closely, it would be easy to miss people passing in front of the narrow doorway visible from here.

“Did you notice a disturbance this morning?” Vaughan asked.

“I heard the family car pull out of their driveway very quickly. It was early. Maybe five or six.”

“Which was it?” Zoe asked.

“I slept through my alarm, which is unusual. The sun hadn’t risen.”

“The sun rose at 6:13 a.m.,” Zoe said.

“Then it must have been closer to five, because it was pretty dark.” She shook her head, trailing Zoe’s gaze with her own. “This is such a quiet neighborhood. We don’t see trouble like this.”

“Were you curious about what was happening at the Foster house?” Zoe asked. “Did the Fosters usually leave so early?”

“No, not that early,” she said. “I wanted to call over and make sure everything was okay, but that felt too nosy. People are entitled to leave early if they want to. Now I wished I’d at least called.”

“Did you see anyone looking at the house?” Vaughan asked. “Anyone in the neighborhood who didn’t belong?”

“What kind of person are you talking about?” Mrs. Pollard asked.

“Anyone that didn’t seem to fit,” Zoe said.

“No one today,” she said.

“What about yesterday or any day before?” Vaughan asked.

“Nothing. And I’m home all day and have a tendency to notice.” She pressed a trembling fingertip to her mouth, shaking her head. “This is just so terrible. I’ve spoken to my husband, Rodney, on the phone, and he says you can call him anytime today. He is more than willing to talk to you. But if he’d seen anything out of the ordinary, he’d have said something to me. And he didn’t.”

Nothing out of the ordinary. A regular day, other than the car leaving the driveway quickly between five and six o’clock. Around five o’clock in the morning, the roads would have been easier to travel. Closer to six o’clock, and those times would have tripled.

Vaughan asked Mrs. Pollard a few more questions but got nowhere. The stress underscoring Vaughan’s tone was growing more pronounced, and Zoe took the lead.

“Did Hadley ever talk about her family?”

“She mentioned that her sister died when she was a teenager. Said something about a car accident,” Mrs. Pollard said. “It’s odd that you should ask about her family. Normally, she had a bright smile on her face and a great disposition. But about a month ago, I saw her struggling with a garden hose, and she suddenly started to cry. I asked her if she was okay, and she said she’d run into someone who reminded her of her sister’s death.”

“Did she mention a name?” Zoe asked.

“No. In fact, it was like she caught herself and stopped talking. Next thing I knew, she was smiling like she didn’t have a care in the world.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Tuesday, August 13, 3:30 p.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

Just over Eight Hours after the 911 Call

Vaughan and Spencer spent the next several hours knocking on doors and talking to the immediate neighbors. Another woman confirmed the Lexus had left well before dawn, closer to five than six. However, no one had seen anything unusual.

Their one and only witness to whatever had happened in the Foster home was Mark Foster. Now that he’d had a few hours to rest, it was time to talk with him again. They pushed through the hospital doors and made their way to the charge nurse on the floor. She told them Foster was conscious and threatening to check out if he couldn’t talk to the cops again.