Will was good at going in soft. He’d perfected the technique. And he was her partner. She should call him, or at least get word to him. But what would she say? “I need your help but you can’t tell Amanda and we may end up breaking the law, but please don’t ask any questions.” It was an untenable position. He’d bent the rules for her yesterday, but she couldn’t ask him to break them. There was no one else she would trust more to have her back, but Will had a sometimes vexing sense of right and wrong. Part of her was afraid that he would tell her no. And a larger part of her was afraid that she would end up getting him into the kind of trouble that he could never get out of. It was one thing for Faith to throw her career out the window. She couldn’t ask Will to do the same.

She dropped her head into her hands. Even if she wanted to reach out, the phones were tapped in case a ransom demand was made. Her email was through her GBI account, which was more than likely being monitored. They were probably listening in on her cell phone calls, too.

And that was just the good guys. Who knew what Evelyn’s kidnappers had managed to do? They knew Jeremy’s nickname, his birth year, his school. They had sent a warning through his Facebook account. Maybe they had bugged the house, too. You could get spy-quality devices off the Internet. Unless Faith went around removing switch plates and taking apart the phones, there was no telling whether or not someone was listening. And the minute she started acting paranoid around her family, they would know that something was wrong. Not to mention the Atlanta detectives, who were watching her every move.

Finally, she heard the downstairs toilet flush. A few seconds later, the front door opened and closed. Zeke was probably going for a run, or maybe the detectives had decided to get their fresh air in the front yard instead of the back.

Faith’s hamstrings vibrated with pain as she put her feet on the floor. She’d been curled up for so long that her body was stiff. Other than checking on Emma, she hadn’t dared walk around last night for fear of Zeke coming upstairs to ask her what the hell she was doing. The house was old, the floorboards were squeaky, and her brother was a light sleeper.

She started with her chest of drawers, carefully opening each one, checking through her underwear and T-shirts and nightgowns to see if anything had been disturbed. Nothing looked out of place. Next, she went to the closet. Her work wardrobe consisted mostly of black suits with stretch in the pants so that she didn’t have to worry about whether or not they would button in the morning. Her maternity clothes were in a box on the lower shelf. Faith dragged over a chair and checked that the tape was still sealed. The stack of blue jeans beside it looked undisturbed. Still, she checked all the pockets, then went back to her suits and did the same.

Nothing.

Faith climbed back onto the chair and stretched on tiptoe to reach the top shelf, where she’d stored the box of Jeremy’s childhood memorabilia. It nearly fell on her head. She caught it at the last minute, holding her breath for fear of making too much noise. She sat on the floor with the box between her legs. The cardboard was unsealed. The tape had been peeled off months ago. While she was pregnant with Emma, Faith had been obsessed with going through Jeremy’s childhood keepsakes. It was a good thing she lived alone or someone would’ve seriously questioned her emotional stability. Just the sight of his bronzed shoes and little knitted booties had turned her into a weeping mess. His report cards. His school papers. Mother’s Day cards he’d drawn in crayon. Valentines he’d cut with his tiny blunted scissors.

Her eyes stung as she opened the box.

A lock of Jeremy’s hair rested on top of his twelfth-grade report card. The blue ribbon looked different. She held it up to the light. Time had faded the pastel-colored silk, giving the creases a dingy cast. The hair had darkened to a golden brown. Something felt different. She couldn’t tell whether or not the bow had been retied or if it had come loose in the box. She also couldn’t remember whether she’d stacked his report cards first grade to twelfth or the other way around. It seemed counterintuitive that the last was first, especially since the lock of hair was on top. Or maybe she was just talking herself into a frenzy when nothing was wrong.

Faith lifted up the stack of report cards and looked underneath. His papers were still there. She saw the bronze shoes, the booties, the construction paper greeting cards he’d made in school.

Everything seemed accounted for, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that the box had been tampered with. Had someone else gone through Jeremy’s things? Had they seen the hearts he’d drawn on a picture of Mr. Billingham, his first dog? Had they rifled through his report cards and laughed because Mrs. Thompson, his fourth-grade teacher, had called him a little angel?

Faith closed the box. She hefted it up over her head and slid it onto the shelf. By the time she shoved the chair back in place, she was shaking with fury at the thought of some stranger’s grimy hands on her boy’s things.

She went to Emma’s room next. The baby didn’t normally sleep through the night, but yesterday had been unusually long and tumultuous. She was still asleep when Faith checked the crib. Her throat made a clicking noise as she breathed. Faith laid a hand on her chest. Emma’s heart felt like a bird trapped under Faith’s hand. Quietly, she searched the closet, the small box of toys, the diapers and supplies.

Nothing.

Jeremy was still asleep, but Faith went into his room anyway. She picked up his clothes from the floor to give some pretense of belonging. Part of her just wanted to stand there and stare at him. He was in what she thought of as his John Travolta pose, sprawled on his stomach, right foot hanging off the bed, left arm sticking straight out above his head. His thin shoulder blades stuck out like chicken wings. His hair covered most of his face. There was a spot of saliva on his pillow. He still slept with his mouth open.

His room had been spotless yesterday, but his mere presence had altered everything. Papers covered the desk. His backpack spilled onto the floor. Wires from various pieces of computer equipment were draped across the carpet. His laptop, which she had saved for six months to buy, was open on its side like a discarded book. Faith used her foot to tip it right side up before leaving the room. Then, she went back in one more time, but only to pull the sheet up over his shoulders so that he wouldn’t get cold.

Faith threw Jeremy’s clothes on top of the washer and made her way downstairs. Detective Connor was sitting in his usual chair at the kitchen table. His shirt was different from yesterday, and his shoulder holster wasn’t as tight around his chest. His red hair was tousled, probably from sleeping with his head on the table. She had started thinking of him as “Ginger” and was afraid to open her mouth for fear of the name slipping out.

He said, “Good morning, Agent Mitchell.”

“My brother’s out running?”

He nodded. “Detective Taylor went to get breakfast. I hope you like McDonald’s.”

The thought of food was enough to make Faith feel sick again, but she said, “Thank you.”

Half the refrigerator’s contents were gone, though that was probably down to Jeremy and Zeke, both of whom ate like eighteen-year-old boys. She took out the orange juice. The carton was empty. Neither her son nor her brother liked orange juice.

She asked Ginger, “Did you guys have some juice?”