Next to the window are dozens of multicolored flyers, layered like feathers over the glass, advertising different special events and discounted specials and, of course, the anniversary party. A new one has been recently added to the mix, this one glaringly out of place: a grainy photograph of the missing girl, Madeline Snow, face tilted to the camera, gap-toothed and grinning. In big block letters above her image it says simply: MISSING. Now it strikes me that the girl with the blond ponytail, the one who was standing with the cops and seemed somehow familiar, must be related to Madeline Snow. They have the same wide-spaced eyes, the same subtly rounded chin.

I touch my finger to the word Missing, as if I could erase it. I briefly think about the story Parker told me, about Donovan, an everyday guy just walking around wearing a big smile and collecting kiddie porn on his computer.

“You going to order, or what?” Parker says.

“Is everything okay?” I’m careful not to look at him. My throat is still as dry as chalk. I want to buy a water but don’t want to ask Parker to get it. “You seem a little . . .”

“A little what?” He leans forward on his elbows, eyes dark, unsmiling.

“I don’t know. Mad at me or something.” I take a deep breath. “Is it because of the party?”

Now it’s Parker’s turn to look away—over my head, squinting, as if something fascinating is happening midair. “I was hoping we could, you know, actually hang out.”

“Sorry.” I don’t bother pointing out that technically, I never said I would come, only that I would think about it. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Really? Didn’t seem like it.” He makes a face. Then I remember I spent the whole day with him at work, laughing, talking, threatening to splash each other with the industrial cleaning hose. He knows I was feeling just fine.

“I wasn’t in the mood to party.” There’s no way I can tell him what I really feel: that I was hoping my note would bring Dara to my door, that she would knock a half second before letting herself in, wearing one of her backless, strapless, gravity-defying tank tops and a thick covering of eye shadow; that she would insist that I change into something sexier, that she would grip my chin and force makeup on me, as if I were the younger sister. “Did you have fun?”

He just shakes his head and mutters something I can’t hear.

“What?” I’m starting to get angry.

“Forget it,” he says. I spot Shirley waddling toward us, scowling as usual. Parker must see her at the same time, because he backs up, toward the door sandwiched between the deep fryer and the microwave. When he opens the door, a wedge of light expands across the narrow space, touching boxes of hamburger buns and towering stacks of plastic soda lids.

“Parker—”

“I said forget it. Seriously. It’s no big deal. I’m not mad.” Then he disappears, silhouetted momentarily before vanishing, and Shirley takes his place, shuffling up to the counter, huffing, moisture clinging to the bleached-blond hair on her upper lip.

“You gonna order something, or just sit there staring?” she says to me. Big dark rings have expanded under her breasts, like the shadows of two groping hands.

“Not hungry,” I say. Which, thanks to Parker, is true.

JULY 22

Dara

Sarah Snow and her best friend, Kennedy, were babysitting Madeline Snow on Sunday, July 19. Madeline was running a low fever. Still, she demanded ice cream from her favorite place on the shore, Big Scoop, and eventually Sarah and Kennedy gave in.

By the time they arrived, it was after 10:00 p.m. and Madeline had fallen asleep. Sarah and Kennedy went inside together, leaving Madeline in the backseat. Sarah may have locked the doors, but she may not have.

There was a long line. Big Scoop has been in business since the late seventies, and has become, for the residents of Shoreline County and the tens of thousands of vacationers who descend on the shore every summer, a landmark. It took twenty-five minutes for Sarah and Kennedy to get their order: Rum Pecan Punch for Kennedy; Double Trouble Chocolate for Sarah; Strawberries and Cream for Madeline.

But when they returned to the car, the back door was hanging open and Madeline was gone.

The cop who tells us all this, Lieutenant Frank Hernandez, doesn’t look like a cop, more like a weary dad trying to coach his son’s soccer team back from a really bad loss. He’s not even wearing a uniform, but scuffed-up sneakers and a dark-blue polo shirt. There’s mud on the cuffs of his jeans, and I wonder whether he was one of the guys at the Drink two nights ago, maybe even the cop who arrested Colin Dacey and made him spend the night sleeping it off at the boxy little station downtown. Rumor has it that the bust was related to Madeline’s disappearance. The cops start getting shit in the media—no leads, no suspects—so they decide to prove their worth by raiding a keg party.

Colin is here, looking miserable and pale, like a tortured saint; I spot Zoe Heddle and Hunter Dawes and assume both of them were forced to volunteer, too.

Even though Nick covered for me when the cop showed up on our front porch this morning, she made it clear she has no intention of taking the rap for a party she didn’t even attend.

This time, the note was on the toilet seat.

Cop busted “me” at the Drink. Thanks for asking whether you could borrow my sweatshirt. Since “I” went to a party, “I’m” volunteering today. Big Scoop parking lot, 4:00 p.m. Have fun.—N

“At this point, we’re still hoping for a positive outcome,” the cop says, in a tone of voice that suggests they’re fearing the opposite. He’s climbed up onto the concrete divider that separates the Big Scoop parking lot from the beach, and he speaks into the air above the crowd, which is larger than I’d expected. There must be two hundred people packed into the lot, along with three news vans and a cluster of journalists hefting heavy equipment and sweating in the sun. Maybe these are the same journalists who’ve been writing bad things about the Shoreline County cops and budget cuts and incompetence. With their cameras and boom lights and microphones, hovering at the edge of the crowd, they look like members of a futuristic army, waiting for the chance to attack.