“Hello, dear.” She was in her office, as usual. Lance’s mother still lived in the same house in which he’d grown up. Her mental illness had likely always been present, but after his father had vanished when Lance was ten, Jenny Kruger had withdrawn from the world.

On the screen, she smiled sadly. “I’m so sorry to hear about Olivia.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Lance angled the screen to see her better.

Stress and time had not been kind to his mom. She looked older than sixty-one. But since she’d started virtually dating a man from her group therapy session, her eyes—and outlook—seemed brighter. Today, her gray hair was combed, clean, and almost shiny, and she was wearing lipstick. She must have been video chatting with her manfriend, Kevin. Before Kevin, Lance had never seen his mother wear makeup. Kevin worked in computers and had many of the same anxiety issues as Jenny. Their relationship made her happy, and that was all that mattered to Lance.

“I haven’t finished with the background reports yet,” she said. His mom taught online computer classes and designed, maintained, and secured websites. She also helped with the online legwork in some of their more complex cases. “But I wanted to give you an update.” She opened a file. “I’ve been working on Olivia’s investigative pieces. I found several articles exposing people of criminal wrongdoings. In the past ten years, Olivia’s stories directly resulted in three people going to prison. According to the New York State Department of Corrections online inmate lookup, two are still in prison. The third was released six years ago.”

“Who is he?”

“A contractor convicted of grand larceny. He defrauded homeowners, mostly senior citizens, out of more than ninety thousand dollars. He served eighteen months in prison. He promised he would get even with Olivia.”

“Sounds like a possible suspect.”

“Except that he was released six years ago and moved to Oregon. He posted photos of himself in Oregon yesterday.”

“Then he’s probably a dead end.”

“I’ll email you the details. Expect the rest of the reports later today,” his mom said. “Also, I have not found a black or dark-blue 1971 Chevy Nova in Scarlet Falls or the surrounding towns. I’m expanding the search. Is it possible he had the year or color wrong?”

“He seemed sure.” But it had been dark, and Bob’s eyes were not young. “Maybe expand your search to other dark colors.”

“OK. I checked out both Olivia’s agent and editor and found no criminal records for either of them in the tristate area.”

Private investigators did not have access to the same national criminal databases that law enforcement used. They had to piece together background checks from county and state records.

“What about Cliff Franklin?” Lance asked.

“You know he was an auto mechanic before he went to prison,” his mom said. “But in addition to working at a local auto shop, he also had his own business, specializing in antique car restoration.”

“Could that be related to the sighting of the ’71 Nova?” Lance thought aloud.

“I can’t find a link. Neither Cliff nor his brother, Joe, has a Nova registered to him.”

“The vehicle could be unregistered.”

“True,” his mom agreed.

“No wives or exes?” Lance asked.

“None,” Jenny answered. “He operated his side business at his brother’s place.”

“Joe Franklin?”

“Yes. Joe is a game developer. He owns a company called JF, Inc. No criminal record. No civil suits. No marriages or divorces. No current social media activity. Almost every hit in my search results is from before his brother was accused of murder. Joe seems to have gone off the radar after his brother’s arrest. He did not give a single interview after the trial.”

“The media attention must have been brutal.”

“Yes. The press hounded him,” Jenny agreed. “Joe Franklin owns a chunk of wilderness about twenty miles from here. He and his brother inherited the land from their parents, who died in a car accident when the brothers were in their late teens. Cliff is the oldest, and for two years following their parents’ deaths, Cliff was Joe’s guardian. They shared the same address until Cliff was arrested.”

“We need more info on Joe Franklin.” Lance rubbed the back of his neck. Too many hours hunched over his laptop had knotted his muscles. “Did you find anything on the Olanders?”

“Now that’s where things get interesting.” His mom clicked her tongue. “Kennett bought the farm in Randolph County and moved here twenty-five years ago. This is the weird part. No mortgage.”

“A cash buy?” Lance was surprised.

“Yes,” his mom answered. “They bought everything: several hundred acres of land with a house, barns, cows, equipment, customer lists, the works. It was just under a million dollars.”

“Where did the money come from?” Lance asked. “Family?”

“I didn’t find anything in his family’s history that suggests they had that kind of money, but it’s possible.”

But Lance suspected the source of the money was related to the arsenal he’d found in the Olanders’ basement.

Chapter Eighteen

The peal of Sharp’s phone alarm jolted him back to consciousness. It took all of three seconds before he remembered Olivia’s disappearance. He scanned his empty office, then checked his phone for messages and emails.

Nothing.

Disappointment crushed him as if a car were parked on his chest. Sitting up on the couch in his office, he rubbed his stubbled jaw. He hadn’t wanted to close his eyes, but Lance had insisted. Lance had been right. Even through the fog of waking, Sharp could feel his neurons beginning to fire.

He was still groggy as hell, but the small amount of sleep would enable him to function.

Rising, he went across the hall and ducked into Lance’s office. “Anything?”

“I called the cable company, utilities, and township,” Lance said. “None of them sent a white van to Olivia’s street in the past couple of weeks. Stella is on the way. She says she has news. Why don’t you get a cup of tea? You look like hell.”

But Sharp’s brain felt like mush. “I don’t think tea is going to cut it.”

He went into Morgan’s office and called out, “How do you work this coffee machine?”

Lance appeared in the doorway, looking shocked. “When was the last time you drank coffee?”

“I don’t know.” Sharp took a clean mug from Morgan’s shelf. “Sometime in the nineties, I think. But I’m desperate. I can hardly think straight, and I really need to be on my game.”

“Lift the handle, insert a pod, and press the flashing blue button.”

“These plastic pods are terrible for the environment.” But Sharp followed his instructions. In less than a minute, he had a cup of coffee. He took a tentative sip. It didn’t taste as good as he remembered, but he’d drink it anyway.

“What you really need is more sleep,” Lance said.

“That’s not going to happen. Not until we find her.” Sharp turned, panic scrambling for a toehold in his chest. “What if we don’t?”