“Even then,” Rasbach says, “we would expect to find something.” He looks pointedly at them both. “We have interviewed everyone we possibly can. No one admits to seeing anybody carrying a baby out your front door.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Marco says, his frustration showing.

“You haven’t found anyone who saw her being carried through the back door either,” Anne points out sharply. “You haven’t found a damn thing.”

“There is the bulb that was loosened in the motion detector,” Detective Rasbach reminds them. He pauses, then adds, “We have also found evidence of tire tracks in your garage that don’t match your car.” He waits for the information to sink in. “Has anyone used your garage lately, that you know of? Do you let anyone park there?”

Marco looks at the detective and then quickly looks away. “No, not that I know of,” he says.

Anne shakes her head.

Anne and Marco are clearly stressed. It is not surprising, as Rasbach has just implied that in the absence of any physical evidence of anyone else carrying their baby out of the house—specifically across the backyard to the garage—it must have been one of them who removed her from the home.

“I’m sorry, but I must ask you about the medication in your bathroom cabinet,” Rasbach says, turning to Anne. “The sertraline.”

“What about it?” Anne asks.

“Can you tell me what it is for?” Rasbach asks gently.

“I have mild depression,” Anne says defensively. “It was prescribed by my doctor.”

“Your family doctor?”

She hesitates. She looks at Marco, as if not sure of what to do, but then she answers. “By my psychiatrist,” she admits.

“I see.” Rasbach adds, “Can you tell me the name of your psychiatrist?”

Anne looks at Marco again and says, “Dr. Leslie Lumsden.”

“Thank you,” Rasbach murmurs, making a note in his little book.

“Lots of mothers get postpartum depression, Detective,” Anne says defensively. “It’s quite common.”

Rasbach nods noncommittally. “And the mirror in the bathroom? Can you tell me what happened to it?”

Anne flushes and looks uneasily at the detective. “I did that,” she admits. “When we came home and found Cora missing, I smashed the mirror with my hand.” She holds up her bandaged hand. The hand her mother had bathed and disinfected and bandaged for her. “I was upset.”

Rasbach nods again, makes another note.

According to what the parents had told Rasbach earlier, the last time anyone other than one of them saw the child alive was at about two in the afternoon on the day of the kidnapping, when Anne had grabbed a coffee at the Starbucks on the corner. According to Anne, the baby had been awake in her stroller and smiling and sucking her fingers, and the barista had waved at the little girl.

Rasbach had been to the Starbucks earlier that morning and had spoken to the same barista, who fortunately had already been at work by then. She remembered Anne and the baby in the stroller. But it looks as if no one else will be able to confirm that the baby was alive after 2:00 p.m. on Friday, the day she disappeared.

“What did you do after you stopped at Starbucks yesterday?” Rasbach asks now.

“I came home. Cora was fussy—she’s usually fussy in the afternoon—so I was walking around the house holding her a lot,” Anne says. “I tried to put her down for a nap, but she wouldn’t sleep. So I picked her up again, walked her around the house, the backyard.”

“Then what?”

“I did that until Marco got home.”

“What time was that?” Rasbach asks.

Marco says, “I got home about five. I knocked off a bit early, because it was Friday and we were going out.”

“And then?”

“I took Cora from Anne and sent Anne upstairs for a nap.” Marco leans against the back of the sofa and rubs his hands up and down his thighs. Then he starts to jiggle one of his legs. He is restless.

“Do you have kids, Detective?” Anne asks.

“No.”

“Then you don’t know how exhausting they can be.”

“No.” He shifts his own position in the chair. They are all getting tired. “What time did you go next door to the party?” Rasbach asks.

“About seven,” Marco answers.

“So what did you do between five and seven o’clock?”

“Why are you asking us this?” Anne says sharply. “Isn’t this a waste of time? I thought you were going to help us!”

“I have to know everything that happened. Please just answer as best you can,” Rasbach says calmly.

Marco reaches out and puts a hand on his wife’s thigh, as if to settle her down. He says, “I played with Cora while Anne slept. I fed her some cereal. Anne woke up around six.”

Anne takes a deep breath. “And then we had an argument about going to the party.”

Marco stiffens visibly beside her.

“Why did you argue?” Rasbach asks, looking Anne in the eyes.

“The babysitter canceled,” Anne says. “If she hadn’t canceled, none of this ever would have happened,” she says, as if realizing it for the first time.

This was new. Rasbach hadn’t known there was to be a babysitter. Why are they just telling him this now? “Why didn’t you say this before?”

“Didn’t we?” Anne says, surprised.

“Who was the babysitter?” Rasbach asks.

Marco says, “A girl named Katerina. She’s our regular babysitter. She’s a twelfth-grader. She lives about a block from here.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“What?” Marco says. He doesn’t appear to be paying attention. Perhaps his exhaustion is catching up with him, Rasbach thinks.

“When did she cancel?” Rasbach asks.

“She called about six o’clock. By then it was too late to get another sitter,” Marco says.

“Who spoke to her?” Rasbach is writing a note in his book.

“I did,” Marco says.

“We could have tried to get another sitter,” Anne says bitterly.

“At the time I didn’t think it was necessary. Of course, now . . .” Marco trails off, looking at the floor.

“Can I have her address?” Rasbach asks.

“I’ll get it,” Anne says, and goes to the kitchen to retrieve it. While they wait, Rasbach hears murmured voices coming from the kitchen; Anne’s parents want to know what’s going on.

“What was the argument about, exactly?” Rasbach asks after Anne has returned and handed him a piece of paper with the name and address of the babysitter scribbled on it.

“I didn’t want to leave Cora home by herself,” Anne says bluntly. “I said I’d stay home with her. Cynthia didn’t want us to bring the baby because she fusses a lot. Cynthia wanted an adults-only party—that’s why we called the sitter. But then, once she canceled, Marco thought it would be rude to bring the baby when we’d said we wouldn’t, and I didn’t want to leave her home alone, so we argued about it.”

Rasbach turns to Marco, who nods miserably.

“Marco thought if we had the monitor on next door and checked her every half hour, it would be fine. Nothing bad would happen, you said,” Anne says, turning with sudden venom on her husband.

“I was wrong!” Marco says, turning to his wife. “I’m sorry! It’s all my fault! How many times do I have to say it?”

Detective Rasbach watches the chinks in the couple’s relationship widen. The tension he had picked up on immediately after their daughter was reported missing has already blossomed into something more—blame. The united front they had shown in the first minutes and hours of the investigation is starting to erode. How could it not? Their daughter is missing. They are under intense pressure. The police are in their home, the press is pounding at their front door. Rasbach knows that if there is anything here to find, he will find it.

EIGHT

Detective Rasbach leaves the Contis’ house and sets off to interview the babysitter at her home to confirm their story. It is late morning, and as he walks the short distance down the leafy streets, he turns the case over in his mind. There is no evidence that an intruder was in the house or yard. But there are fresh tire tracks on the cement floor of the garage. He is suspicious of the parents, but now there is this news about the babysitter.