From Gene’s vantage, a kitchen chair set five feet back from Marcus and Carol, it was clear: Marcus was emotionally compromised. It was etched right into his body language. Skin sheened with sweat. Elbows on the table. Hands clasped—as if in vigilant solidarity. Ready to jump on Carol’s bandwagon, wherever it might lead him.

Gene had seen it before. Many times.

Then again, Gene had seen everything before. Many times.

For Gene, the assignment to locate ten-year-old Marigold Riley was the latest of well over fifteen hundred cases he’d worked over the course of his forty years at the Bureau. He’d lost track of the exact figure long ago. Partly because he didn’t like thinking about it. Partly because it depended how you counted.

He was brought in to consult on about a hundred cases annually. Averaged fifty in terms of direct assignments, though he’d scaled back in recent years. He’d wagered lunch with an officemate this was going to be his last. But as the saying went, wish in one hand, shit in the other.

Not that Gene could blame Marcus. The guy was, in many ways, still a kid. His first nine months on the job, only his fifth case. At least he’d confirmed what they had in their files.

The mother’s name was Carol Riley. Divorced with two children: Marigold—the missing person—and Katie, Marigold’s twin sister. Non-identical, Carol was sure to mention. Quite emphatically. As if the school photos didn’t make that clear.

Gene had been examining the two wallet-sized squares while Marcus did his thing. Both photos showed the girls sitting atop the same stool, in front of the same blurred, hazel backdrop.

Marigold was sun-kissed, with auburn hair framing round, tan features. A paradoxical expression burned out of the photograph: a gaze that conveyed serene contentment yet did so with smoldering intensity. She looked self-possessed, yet playful. Childlike, yet wise. An odd mix on a ten-year-old. Part of her looked five, the other part about fifty.

Katie’s picture was a stark contrast, but equally paradoxical. Espresso-brown hair crowded in on narrow, pale features. Dark, furtive eyes. Her gaze was intense, like Marigold’s, but where Marigold was confident, Katie was ambivalent. From behind an uncertain smile and an outthrust chin, she was broadcasting both apprehension and rebelliousness. Submissive defiance.

Peeking out from behind the hair was what appeared to be a red mark on the left side of her neck. Maybe an injury. Maybe a birthmark. The photo was too small to be sure.

Luckily for the kids, Carol resembled neither. She was rail thin, looked about fifty, claimed to be thirty-nine, but was forty-three according to her file. As she spoke, a lit cigarette bobbed up and down on her lower lip, growing a finger of ash. Gene’s eye kept catching on it. His eye also caught on the track marks running up her left arm, which disappeared under the sleeve of her robe.

They looked old—scarred over maybe. Or covered in foundation. Carol had that kind of over-tan skin and thick eyeliner that hid both her age and her past. Her whole attitude spoke of a need to conceal something. Minimally, deep-seated insecurity, but maybe other things too.

Maybe guilt.