“Wow. Exciting. No little brother?” I had yet to meet Rocco. Since he wasn’t Sullivan’s son, he wasn’t at the boatyard the way Audrey was.

“No,” she said. “He’s staying with my grandmother. Not happy about it, either, but I’ll bring him the shampoo from the hotel.”

“Nice,” I said. Damn, she was such a good kid.

Sully nodded at me and handed Amy aboard, then got on himself. Both parents looked a little drawn and worried, unlike the patient herself, who was practically dancing in place.

“Any questions? Anything I can do?” I asked.

“You’ve been great already,” Audrey said.

Amy and Sullivan were talking in low voices, their body language indicating an argument. Alas, the ferry motor prevented (and saved) me from eavesdropping. “Where are you staying, Audrey?” I asked.

“The Copley Square Plaza. Mom and Dad let me pick.”

“You picked the best one,” I said, because clearly this was what she wanted to focus on. “They have a tea, I hear.”

“We’re going. Hey, do you want to come?”

I didn’t even glance at Amy and Sullivan. “No, but thank you. I’m meeting friends.”

“Drat.” She bent down and rubbed Boomer’s ears. My dog looked up at her and smiled and wagged, then went back to destroying the bone. Jake turned the ferry to open water, and we picked up speed.

Sullivan was staring out over the ocean. Amy was texting.

“Well, you guys have my number if anything comes up, or if you have any questions,” I said to Audrey.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Yeah. Thanks,” Amy added. Sully’s back was to us, so he didn’t hear...or just had bigger things on his mind.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going in. I have some reading to do,” I lied. This was their time together, and they didn’t need me hanging around.

At least I had a dog. “Come on, Boomerang,” I said, and my faithful beastie followed me into the small cabin.

* * *

When we docked in Boston, I hugged Audrey and wished everyone the best. Amy and Sullivan were preoccupied, and who wouldn’t be? Their kid was going to have medical instruments stuck up her nose and into her head. No matter how great the odds for Audrey were, they were both scared.

I watched as they walked away, then slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for Bobby’s apartment. He was working and asked if I could drop the dog off. And being a schmuck, I said yes.

It was sunny and warm, a lot warmer than on the island. I took off my denim jacket and tied it around my waist. Boomer and I were stopped a lot by people who wanted to worship him, and I allowed it. Didn’t have any other plans, after all. Maybe I’d go shopping. A little retail therapy might lift my blues.

I read the signs on the second and third floors of buildings as I walked, always curious what other people did for a living. Piano lessons. Yoga studio. Attorney. A knife sharpening place—Est. 1938. Amazing that it hadn’t gone out of business. A ballet school. A private investigator.

I stopped.

James Gillespie, Private Investigator, Licensed, Bonded, Insured.

“What do you think, Boomer?” I said.

“I think it’s a great idea,” he said. Well, he implied.

We went up the stairs and knocked, and a second later, an older gentleman answered the door. “Hello,” he said in a lovely, Morgan Freeman kind of voice.

“Hi,” I said. “I might have a case for you.”

“Do you, now? And who’s this?” He bent over and scratched Boomer’s ears, getting a croon of approval.

It only took seven minutes. There wasn’t a lot I knew about my father, after all.

“If he can be found, I’ll find him,” Mr. Gillespie said. “There are a lot of things I can try.” Coming from that voice, I believed him.

I paid the retainer, signed a paper, and that was that. Mr. Gillespie said goodbye, and I went back out into the sunshine and humidity, feeling considerably better.

At least it was something. I could tell Lily about it when she came to get Poe. I could tell her I’d tried, and even though Mr. Gillespie was the third private investigator I’d hired, it felt better to be doing something.

I headed for the Commons. The Dog of Dogs would appreciate that. Plus, more hearts and minds for him to win over.

Boston’s little park was full of people. Kids tugged on adult hands, begged for ice cream, splashed in the Frog Pond. There were at least six Frisbees flying through the air, making Boomer cock his head in wonder as his fellow canines chased these flying things. Two twentysomethings lay on a blanket in the grass, turned toward each other, just gazing into each other’s eyes. I smiled and looked away. Young love. What could be sweeter?

Then I saw him.

Him. Voldemort.

My heart froze, and my knees turned to water. I sank to the grass and slid my arm around Boomer without taking my eyes off the man who’d terrorized me.

I’d thought I’d seen him a couple dozen times in the past year, and each time, I’d been jolted with fear. Each time, I’d been wrong.

This time, Lizard Brain was sure.

He was just sitting on a bench, eating something—ice cream. Khaki pants, blue T-shirt, that completely unremarkable face, occasionally glancing at people walking past. People who had no idea what he could do. What he liked doing.

I had to find a cop. Or call one. I pulled out my phone and, trying not to take my eyes off him, dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one, please state your emergency.”

“Hi, I was attacked last year, and they never found the guy, and I see him right now. I’m at the Commons, right across from Frog Pond, you know? Uh, I mean, north? North of the pond? And he’s sitting on a bench on the path.”

“Okay, calm down, ma’am. You say he attacked you?”

“Yes. I filed a report. I was in the hospital. I... It was bad.”

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

For a second, I couldn’t remember. I honestly drew a blank. “Um...Nora? Stuart? Nora Stuart. With a u. Shit, he’s getting up! He’s getting up and walking, uh, east. Toward Park Street. He’s leaving! He’s past the frog statues! Hurry up!”

“Ma’am, I’ve found your record. I have police on the way. Can you describe the man?”

“Five-nine, five-ten, about 170 pounds. Sandy blond hair, blue eyes. He’s wearing khaki pants, a blue T-shirt, a Red Sox hat.” Like every freakin’ male in Boston. I got up, grabbed Boomer’s leash and started walking. Fast. “I’m following him.”

“Please, don’t do that, ma’am.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, there was a throng of people approaching, all with name badges on lanyards around their necks, a guide loudly describing the wonders of the Freedom Trail. Tourists, damn them, and he was swallowed by them, all those people, their iPads and phones held high. I darted around.

“Oh, I just love your dog,” said a woman in a thick Southern drawl.

“Not now,” I said, bolting past, the epitome of rude Yankee. Where was he? Where was he?

There. I started running.

And maybe he had a lizard brain, too, because he began to trot past the hot dog vendors and the guy juggling balls, which made Boomer want to stop and play, and I had to yank hard, but this was important. There. There he was, yes, him, at the T stop, damn it all to hell.