“So,” Benedict said, “theoretically speaking, you’re here to thank us?”

“Nothing theoretical about it. You’re a hero. We want to shake your hand.”

No one shook hands.

“Tell me,” Benedict said, “where did you find his body?”

“That’s not important.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“That’s not important either.”

Benedict said, smiling broadly, “Is this really the way to treat your hero?” He nodded toward me. “If there is nothing else, I think we will be leaving now.”

Mulholland glanced over at Telesco. I thought that I saw a small smile on her face. I didn’t like it. “Okay,” he said, “if that’s how you want to play it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning nothing. You’re free to go.”

“Sorry we couldn’t help,” Benedict said.

“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, we just wanted to thank the man who took this guy out.”

“Uh-huh.” We were both standing now. “We can find our way out.”

We were nearly out the door when Susan Telesco said, “Oh, Professor Fisher?”

I turned.

“Do you mind if we show you one more photograph?”

They both looked up at me as though they couldn’t be bothered, as though they had all the time in the world and my answer was meaningless. I could look at the picture or I could walk out the door. No biggie. I didn’t move. They didn’t move.

“Professor Fisher?” Telesco said.

She slid the photograph out of the folder facedown, as if we were playing blackjack in a casino. I could see the glint in her eye now. The room dropped ten degrees.

“Show me,” I said.

She flipped over the photograph. I froze.

“Do you know this woman?” she asked.

I didn’t reply. I stared at the photograph. Yes, of course, I knew the woman.

It was Natalie.

“Professor Fisher?”

“I know her.”

The photograph was black-and-white. It looked like a still frame from some kind of surveillance video. Natalie was hurrying down a corridor.

“What can you tell me about her?”

Benedict put a hand on my shoulder. “Why are you asking my client?”

Telesco pinned me down with her eyes. “You were visiting her sister when we found you. Would you mind telling us what you were doing there?”

“And again,” Benedict said, “why are you asking my client?”

“The woman’s name is Natalie Avery. We’ve previously spoken at length to her sister, Julie Pottham. She claims that her sister lives in Denmark.”

I spoke this time. “What do you want with her?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“Then neither am I,” I said.

Telesco looked at Mulholland. He shrugged. “Okay, then. You’re free to go.”

We all stood there, playing this game of chicken. To mix metaphors, I had no cards here so I was the first to blink. “We used to date,” I said.

They waited for more.

Benedict said, “Jake . . . ,” but I waved him off.

“I’m looking for her.”

“Why?”

I glanced at Benedict. He seemed to be as curious as the cops. “I loved her,” I said. “I never really got over her. So I was hoping . . . I don’t know. I was hoping for some kind of reconciliation.”

Telesco wrote something down. “Why now?”

That anonymous e-mail came back to me:

You made a promise.

I sat back down and pulled the photograph closer. I swallowed hard. Natalie’s shoulders were hunched. Her beautiful face . . . I could feel myself well up . . . she looked terrified. My finger found her face, as if somehow she could feel my touch and would find comfort. I hated this. I hated seeing her so scared.

“Where was this taken?” I asked.

“It’s not important.”

“The hell it isn’t. You’re looking for her, aren’t you? Why?”

They looked at each other again. Telesco nodded. “Let’s just say,” Mulholland began slowly, “that Natalie is a person of interest.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Not from us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?” For the first time, I saw the facade drop and could see a flash of anger on Mulholland’s face. “We’ve been looking for her”—he grabbed the photograph of Otto—“but so were he and his friends. Who would you rather found her first?”

I stared at the photograph, my vision blurring and clearing, when I noticed something else. I tried not to move, tried not to change the expression on my face. In the bottom right-hand corner, there was a time-date stamp. It read: 11:47 P.M., May 24 . . . six years ago.

This picture had been taken a few weeks before Natalie and I met.

“Professor Fisher?”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“But you’re looking?”

“Yes.”

“Why now?”

I shrugged. “I missed her.”

“But why now?”

“It could have been a year ago. It could have been a year later. It was just the time.”

They didn’t believe me. Too bad.

“Have you had any luck?”

“No.”

“We can help her,” Mulholland said.

I said nothing.

“If Otto’s friends find her first . . .”

“Why are they looking for her? Hell, why are you looking for her?”

They changed subjects. “You were in Vermont. Two police officers identified you and we found your iPhone up there. Why?”

“It is where we dated.”

“She stayed at that farm?”

I was talking too much. “We met in Vermont. She got married in the chapel up there.”

“And how did your phone end up there?”

“He must have dropped it,” Benedict said. “By the way, can we get it back?”

“Sure. That can be arranged, no problem.”

Silence.

I looked at Telesco. “Have you been searching for her for the last six years?”

“In the beginning. But not so much in recent years, no.”

“Why not?” I asked. “I mean, well, the same question you asked me: Why now?”

Again they exchanged a glance. Mulholland said to Telesco, “Tell him.”