December 22.

Though his original plan was to talk to Cheryl, Shawn's former babysitter, Blake decided to go to Eve's apartment to check for Shawn. What could a babysitter, who probably hadn't seen Shawn for months, tell him, anyway?

One of the deputies had already been to Eve's apartment, but Shawn could have returned there in the meantime. It was worth a look. Blake fingered the key that Eve's mother had given him, pulled it out of his pocket, pushed it in the lock and twisted. The door opened into a room darkened by heavy curtains. Inching his way into the room, Blake found a lamp and turned it on. A worn brown sofa was pushed against one wall. Across from it was a white Formica table holding a small television. Nothing else. That was the only furniture in the room.

Something was off. He walked around the room until he figured out what his instincts told him was odd. He realized there were no toys in the room a" no games, puzzles, miniature race cars, toy soldiers or any other toy. If you made a judgment based on the living room, a small boy didn't live here. But Shawn did.

With barely enough room for one person to turn around, the kitchen was small by any standards. Other than a few dirty dishes in the sink, the kitchen was fairly clean. Opening the refrigerator door, Blake found it almost empty, except for a half-filled jar of peanut b.u.t.ter, a nearly empty jar of strawberry jam, and a six-pack of beer. On top was a plastic bag with four slices of white bread. He prayed that it had been grocery day and this wasn't the way Eve and Shawn lived, with not enough food to feed one person, let alone a young woman and her child.

Blake noticed a basket of dirty laundry sitting on top of the washer and pulled some folded bags out of his back pocket. Wearing latex gloves, he sifted through the clothing until he found three of Shawn's shirts that he carefully placed in each of three paper evidence bags. Lane and Frankie were organizing a big community search for Shawn, and their search-and-rescue dog, Hunter, would need the little boy's scent.

He walked to the back of the apartment to check the bedrooms. Pink gingham curtains lined Eve's bedroom window, and an old-fashioned chenille bedspread with pink flowers covered her full-sized bed. In her closet hung a couple of waitress uniforms, a couple of jackets, two dresses and a few blouses. Folded neatly on an upper shelf were some jeans and sweaters. Only a pair of boots lay on the closet floor. There was no small, five-year-old boy in the closet, nor was he hiding under the bed.

In Shawn's room, Blake's intuitive radar went off. The room was too clean and tidy. What little boy has a room completely devoid of anything on the walls, with only a few toys neatly arranged on a small bookcase? When Blake was a kid, his toys, much to his mother's dismay, could be found in every room of the house. One never knew when the need for imaginative play might kick in and where you'd be when it happened.

Like Eve's, Shawn's bed was neatly made, with a plain white bedspread covering his bed. What mother in her right mind chose a white bedspread for an active little boy? When he opened his closet door, he found Shawn's clothing neatly folded or hung. Nothing was out of place a" which he found to be the most odd.

Blake looked under Shawn's bed and found nothing. Under Shawn's pillow was the first evidence of normalcy in the room, a flashlight and a worn encyclopedia. The discovery made him smile, but feel sad at the same time. Shawn loved to read, and often dragged Blake to the library on his Buddy Program mentoring days. Shawn would race to the children's section and sit cross-legged on the floor with a half-dozen books around him. He was just learning to read and was fascinated with words and pictures. Blake wondered then, as he wondered now, why Shawn always refused to get a library card so he could check out books to take home. Blake picked up the encyclopedia and opened the cover. Scrawled in child's handwriting was the name Billy Collins, the son of the babysitter. So Shawn did have a close friend. Blake headed for the door to pay a visit to Cheryl and Billy Collins.

Anne bit her lip and stared at the ceiling as her gynecologist, Dr. Emily Sands, poked and prodded her breast.

"Okay, Anne, you can sit up now."

"Did you feel the lump?"

"Yes, I did. Our next step will to be to get some tests to determine if your lump is a ma.s.s or a harmless, fluid-filled cyst," Dr. Sands began. "Get dressed and meet me in my office so we can talk."

Once her doctor left the room, Anne's eyes blurred with unshed tears as she fought the fear battering her insides. Please don't let it be cancer. Please don't let it be cancer. She had to stay strong. Anne had two small children and a husband who loved her and depended on her. She didn't even have a final diagnosis, and she was already thinking about dying.

In her doctor's office, Anne listened as Dr. Sands explained. "My nurse has arranged for you to go from here to the new diagnostic center across from the hospital. The technicians there will do an ultrasound exam. It's a painless, radiation-free way to determine if your lump is a ma.s.s. Very likely, it is a fluid-filled cyst, but this exam will tell us definitively what it is."

"What happens next?" asked Anne.

"If your lump is a cyst, testing stops there, because there is nothing to fear," she paused for a second, and then continued. "If it is determined that your lump is not a cyst, it still could be any number of non-cancerous lesions."

Anne swallowed hard and asked, "What if it is cancer?"

"Even if your lump is cancer, Anne, that doesn't mean it's a death sentence a" not with new technology and medical research discoveries."

"When will you have the results?"

"Since it's the holiday season, that's tough to predict. But as soon as I have the results, I'll contact you, I promise."

Behind the Women's Center was a small park with benches surrounding a small pond. Though the temperature had warmed up since the previous day, scattered flurries were moving through the area. Sitting on a park bench with her arms crossed, Anne tried to give herself a pep talk as she waited to leave for her ultrasound appointment. She'd decided not to tell her husband about the lump, nor the testing. It would ruin Michael's holiday, she reasoned. There was no good reason to do that. Anne could get through this alone. She'd been through worse things and survived. She would this time, too. If Anne had to pretend that everything was fine to keep the holidays joyous for her husband, children and friends, then that is what she'd do.

A woman with long blonde hair in a camel wrap coat plopped down next to her on the bench. She had a tissue pressed to her nose, and she was crying.

"Frankie?"

"Oh my G.o.d, Anne, I prayed it was you sitting on this bench. If ever I needed my best friend, it's today," she sobbed.

"What happened? Why are you so upset?"

"I just found out I'm pregnant. I can't believe it. I'm pregnant. Talk about the worst timing in history."

"Oh, Frankie, that is such wonderful news! You and Lane always wanted another child."

"But not now! Thanks to the rotten economy, my private investigation business has almost slowed down to a standstill. Our budget is so tight; Lane's taken a second job." Frankie wiped at her tears and blew her nose.

"Maybe a baby won't be as expensive as you think. I mean, if you have a girl, she can wear some of the clothes that Ashley's grown out of. If it's a boy, I still have Michael Jr.'s baby clothes," Anne said as she wrapped her arm around Frankie's shoulders. "Lane has great insurance through the sheriff's office."

"I suppose."

"What does Lane think about the new baby?

"I just found out, and I don't know how to tell him. In fact, I dread telling him. First, he's working two jobs because of my business, and now I'm pregnant." She tucked the used tissue into her purse and looked at Anne.

"What are you doing at the women's clinic? And why are you out here on this bench in the cold?"

Anne looked down at her gloved hands, trying to think of what she could say.

"Oh, my G.o.d. You're pregnant too, aren't you?" Frankie wrapped her arm around her friend and said, "I'm so happy for you and Michael. You always said you wanted another baby when the twins were older."

"No, Frankie. I'm not pregnant." Sadly, Anne looked out over the pond, then back at her friend.

"Something's wrong. I can see it in your expression. Tell me. Friends don't keep secrets from friends."

"I have a lump in my breast," Anne blurted out as tears welled in her eyes. "My doctor just confirmed it. And I have to..." Remembering her appointment, she glanced at her watch. "I have to go. I have an appointment at the diagnostic center by the hospital."

Frankie stood up and extended her hand to Anne. "What a coincidence. I do, too."

"What?"

"You don't think I'm letting you go alone, do you?"

In his driveway, Tim Brennan sat in his car, finishing up a call to Lane Hansen. "Before you go to the community search for Shawn Isaac, send a deputy to the house of each registered s.e.xual predator in the county. We're covering all our bases to find this kid."

Tim disconnected the call and put his cell phone back in his pocket. He leaned back in his seat and studied every detail of his home. He and Megan had fallen in love with the pink Victorian house the first year of their marriage. Megan's inheritance from her grandparents and his working double, sometimes triple shifts, enabled them to purchase the home and move in on Christmas Day that first year.

Built in 1900, the "Pink Lady" was three stories, with five bedrooms and three baths. A single-story, columned front porch held a white wicker swing, chair, loveseat and tables. He smiled as he remembered the many hot summer nights he'd wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders as they would swing and talk. Above the porch, a balcony perched outside their bedroom, outlined with a decorative railing. A round tower on the left side of the house rose three stories, where it peaked with a "witch's cap." Up front and center was a beautiful, oval, stained-gla.s.s window.

The house was the object of many a curious Sunday driver, but to Tim it was the home where he and Megan had made a life that included raising his only daughter. His plan for its future was to fill it with as many grandchildren and friends' children as he could.

But his plans could change very soon if Megan had her way. She wanted to transform the house into a bed and breakfast. They'd spent many a meal discussing the pros and cons of the plan, with Megan emphasizing the financial rewards that could enhance their retirement. He tried his best to be open to the idea, but wasn't quite ready to fully support it. The home was his heart. Even a hard-nosed sheriff clung to the many memories the house held for him. Tim was not sure he could share it with strangers.

Waiting inside was an architect who had plans to renovate the second floor so that each guest bedroom had its own bath. He'd promised Megan he'd discuss the plans. So he took a deep breath, opened his car door, and headed inside.

The morning sun streaming through the etched round window of the attic woke Shawn. At first he looked around the room with confusion, until he remembered how his best friend had hidden him in this attic. He unzipped the side of his sleeping bag to stretch his arms and yawn. Then he crawled out of Billy's pup tent to look out the round window that faced the street.

A thick blanket of snow hugged the ground and was turning to slush in the streets as the cars sped by. Through the floor furnace grate register, Shawn could hear Billy's mommy and daddy talking in the kitchen, and the smell of bacon and eggs wafting into the attic made his tummy growl. A car door slam drew his attention back to the window, and what he saw made Shawn gasp in alarm: Detective Blake was walking up the sidewalk to the house.

Fear fluttered in his stomach like the fireflies he caught in Mason jars last summer. Detective Blake was his favorite person in the whole world. But today he was the last person Shawn wanted to see entering Billy's house. If he found him hiding in the attic, Detective Blake would make him return home where his mother would say nice words, so the police would leave. But the minute they were gone, she'd beat him until he bled. No, he couldn't go back there. He wouldn't. Even if he got handcuffed, he'd find a way to escape. He couldn't go back.

Shawn rose to his feet and paced back and forth, careful not to make too much noise. There were so many things that could go wrong now, it made him dizzy. What if Billy became so frightened of the law enforcement officer that he told him where Shawn hid? Detective Blake was a big man with lots of muscles. It would be easy for him to scare Billy, because he didn't realize what a nice man he was. He didn't know him like Shawn did.

Shawn moved inside the pup tent and closed the opening. He folded his hands together like he did when he said his bedtime prayer. Only it wasn't his bedtime, and this was more of an emergency prayer. Please G.o.d, don't let Detective Blake find me and make me go home. Please.

Blake knocked on the door a couple of times until a pretty, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties opened it with the chain-lock still engaged. He withdrew his badge from his pocket and introduced himself.

"I'm Blake Stone with the sheriff's office," he began. "I'd like to come in and ask you some questions about Shawn Isaac, who disappeared yesterday."

The woman closed the door to disengage the chain-lock, then thrust it open and asked, "Shawn still hasn't been found?" A wave of apprehension swept through her facial features as he shook his head. After a moment, she stood aside and asked him to come in. She ushered him into the living room and motioned for him to sit down.

Extending her hand to shake Blake's, she said, "I'm Cheryl Collins. I babysat Shawn for years. You can ask me anything you want. I'll help in whatever way I can. First, let me go get some coffee and tell my husband good-bye before he leaves for work. I'll be right back."

Blake scanned his surroundings. There was an overstuffed plaid sofa in the room, with two brown chairs and a coffee table. Tall ivory ceramic lamps graced a couple of end tables. A stack of children's books was on one end table, and green plastic Army men staged in battle were lined up on the other. He sighed as he thought about Shawn. Blake doubted it was a bad thing that the little boy spent so many hours in this home while his mother worked. It looked like the kind of place where a child could be a child. And if he could find Shawn, he and Jennifer would make sure their home did the same. They'd do their best to fill Shawn's life with love, play, and happy memories. If only Blake could find him.

Cheryl Collins entered the room with her flannel-shirted husband, whose jacket was thrown over his shoulder. He was carrying a tray of coffee mugs, a full pot of coffee, and cinnamon rolls.

Blake stood and introduced himself to Cheryl's husband.

"I'm Tom. Cheryl told me why you're here," he said, after he carefully set the tray on the coffee table. He reached into his pocket for a business card, which he handed to Blake. "I'm late for work, but I want you to know that Cheryl and I want to help in any way we can. Shawn is such a great kid. He needs to be found." Tom grabbed his coat and left through the front door.

A small boy that Blake guessed to be Billy peeked around a corner at him.

"Hi, Billy," said Blake. "I'm a friend of Shawn's."

The little boy scrunched his face as if he were considering the truthfulness of Blake's claim. His mother pulled him into the room and said, "Billy, what do you say to Mr. Stone?"

"Glad to meet you, sir," he responded, his eyes glued to the floor.

His mother kissed him soundly on the cheek and told him to go play in his room so the grown-ups could talk. She rose, poured Blake a cup of coffee, then plunked a cinnamon roll on a small plate and handed it to him.

"Thanks, I skipped breakfast this morning," said Blake before he bit into the cinnamon roll.

"I saw on the news last night that both Eve and John were killed and that Shawn is missing. I couldn't believe it. It's terrible," Eve said, sipping her coffee. "I've known that boy since he was three-months-old. That's when Eve started dropping him off here before she went to work."

Blake took a gulp of his coffee, then asked, "Is there anything you can tell me that might help us find him?"

"I'm not sure. Eve lost her job about six months ago, and I haven't seen much of him since then. But I do know that something very wrong was going on in that home."

"Are you referring to John Isaac?" asked Blake.

"Not entirely. Oh, I know John was a bully. Everyone in town knows that. I went to school with him. His family was poor as dirt, and he never had any money, so he'd beat up kids who did for their lunch money. I guess his bullying never stopped as he became an adult. She never said, but I knew he was beating Eve. I could see the bruises. It's Shawn I was worried about."

"What about Shawn?" Blake asked.

"When John Isaac was arrested last spring, Eve took Shawn and moved out," Cheryl recalled.

"Yes, I know."

"I don't think Shawn's beatings stopped when his father went to jail. I don't believe for a minute that John was the only one using his son as a punching bag."

"Eve?"

"Yes. She'd show up here late, and reeking of alcohol. The next day, Shawn would be wearing a long-sleeved shirt no matter how hot it was outside," she said. "One day last summer, I filled the plastic pool out back for the boys. Shawn jumped in with his shirt on. I grabbed him and tickled him until I could pull off the shirt. His back was lined with red welts, some of them were abrasions that had bled. Eve did that to him, and it wasn't the first time."

Blake swallowed hard, trying not to reveal his anger. He placed the cinnamon roll he was eating back on the small plate, which he placed on the table. He'd lost his appet.i.te. "Did you ask Shawn about it?"

"Oh, Eve had him well-trained, or he was too terrified to say anything. He wouldn't talk about it at all. Wouldn't answer any of my questions."

Blake recounted all the time he'd spent with Shawn over the past few months, and not once did he suspect the little boy was being abused. He felt like such a fool. If he had known, he would have put a stop to it long ago. Cheryl was right about Eve's impact on him. Shawn had many opportunities to tell either Blake or Jennifer about the beatings, but he'd said nothing.

"Cheryl, did Shawn have any friends other than your son?"

"None that I know of. Billy and Shawn are the same age and they're in the same kindergarten cla.s.s. They've always been close."

"Would you mind if I ask Billy a couple of questions?"

"No, of course not." She put her coffee cup on the table and walked down the hallway. Blake could hear her talking to Billy in his room. Before long, she led her son into the room. He sat close to her on the sofa.

Cheryl looked at Billy and said, "Billy, Mr. Stone is looking for Shawn, and he needs our help finding him. He's going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer."

Billy nodded, then looked fearfully at Blake.

"Billy, when was the last time you saw Shawn?"

"At school before Christmas break. He's in my cla.s.s," Billy lied, averting his eyes, and pulling at his fingers.

"So you haven't seen him yesterday or today?"

"No," he whispered, still avoiding eye contact.