Unfazed by their mother's mistreatment, eyeing us with far too much curiosity, the girls start across the living room. No one speaks, as if in deference to their presence. The things we'll be discussing are not suited for young ears, despite the probability they've already heard far worse. They're wearing shorts with T-shirts that are too tight and too revealing for such a tender age. That's when I notice the Ace bandage on the taller girl's left wrist. My eyes sweep lower and I notice a bruise the size of a fist on her left thigh, a second bruise on the back of her arm, and I wonder who put them there. I wonder how integral violence is to this family.

The back door slams. I look up, to see a tall, dark-haired young man appear in the kitchen doorway. I know immediately he's Justin Treece. He's nearly six feet tall. Skinny, the way so many young males are, but he's got some sinew in his arms and the rangy look of a street fighter-one who knows how to fight dirty. He's wearing baggy jeans with a drooping crotch-perfect for secreting a weapon-and a dirty T-shirt. Well-worn Doc Martens cover his feet. Newish-looking tats entwine both arms from shoulder to elbow. A single gold chain hangs around his neck, and he has gold hoops in both ears. He's looking at us as if we've interrupted something important and he needs to get back to it ASAP.

"What's going on?" he asks, wiping grease from his hands onto an orange shop towel.

Trina twists her head around to look at him. "I don't know what you did, but these cops want to talk to you."

"I didn't do s.h.i.t." His gaze lingers on his mother, and for an instant I see a flash of raw hatred before he directs his attention to us. "What do you guys want?"

Justin Treece is not what I expected. He's attractive, with dark, intelligent eyes that have the same cunning light as his mother's. Someone less schooled in all the wicked ways of the human animal might presume he's a decent, hardworking young man. But I've never put much weight in appearances, especially when I know they're false.

G.o.ddard doesn't waste time on preliminaries. "When's the last time you saw Annie King?"

An emotion I can't quite identify flickers in his eyes; then his expression goes hard. "I was wondering when you were going to show up."

Tomasetti flips out his identification, holds it up for Justin to see. "Why is that?"

Justin gives him a dismissive once-over. "When something bad happens around here, the cops come calling. I'm their go-to man."

"When a girl goes missing, the boyfriend is usually one of the first people the police talk to," G.o.ddard tells him.

"That's your problem," Justin says.

Tomasetti never takes his eyes from the teen. "Stop acting like a dips.h.i.t and answer the sheriff's question."

"I ain't seen her in a couple days." He shrugs a little too casually, as if a missing girl is of no great concern, girlfriend or not. "I heard she was missing, though."

"You don't seem too worried," Tomasetti says.

"I figured she left."

"Why would you think that?"

Justin rolls his eyes. "Anyone under eighteen with a brain is thinking about leaving this f.u.c.kin' dump. Besides, she hates those Bible-thumping freaks."

"You mean the Amish?" I ask.

He gives me his full attention. Curiosity flickers in his eyes. He's wondering who I am and why I'm here. I tug out my identification and show it to him.

"Yeah, man, the Amish. They treat her like s.h.i.t, and she was sick of all their self-righteous c.r.a.p."

"She told you that?" I ask.

"All the time. They're always judging her, telling her what she can and can't do. She has no freedom and can't do s.h.i.t without one of them pointing their holier-than-thou fingers." That he's speaking of her in the present tense doesn't elude me. "I'm glad she finally got out. Good for her."

"How close are you?" I ask.

"We're friends. You know, tight."

"Since you're so tight, Justin, did it bother you that she left without saying good-bye?" I ask.

The kid surprises me by looking down, and I realize the question hit a raw spot he doesn't want us to see. "It's a free country. I always told her if she got the chance, she should take it." He laughs. "I figured I'd be the one to go first."

"Did she mention a destination?" Tomasetti asks.

He thinks about that a moment. "We used to talk about Florida. She hates the cold. Never even seen the ocean. But I can't see her just picking up and going with no apartment. No job."

"Her parents are worried," I tell him.

"They shoulda treated her better," he shoots back.

"We think she could be in trouble," G.o.ddard says.

His eyes narrow on the sheriff. "You mean like someone ... hurting her?"

"That's exactly what we mean." Tomasetti stares hard at him. "Do you know anything about that?"

"What? You think I did something to her?"

"You ever lose your temper with her?" Tomasetti asks, pressing him. "Ever hit her?"

Trina Treece heaves her frame up off the sofa with the grace of a gymnast. "What kind of question is that?"

"The kind he has to answer." But Tomasetti doesn't take his eyes off the boy.

Justin holds his gaze. "I never touched her."

"Did you buy her a cell phone?" G.o.ddard asks.

"Her parents wouldn't do it, so I did. Last I heard, that wasn't against the law."

"She use it?" I ask.

"Sure. We talk all the time."

"When's the last time you heard from her?" Tomasetti asks.

"I dunno. A couple days ago."

"Have you tried to contact her in the last twenty-four hours?"

Justin nods. "Goes straight to voice mail."

"Didn't that seem strange?" G.o.ddard asks. "Or worry you?"

"Hey, she's like that. Independent, you know?" The teenager shrugs. "I figured she'd call me when she got to where she was going."

Tomasetti pulls out his notepad. "What's the number?"

Justin rattles it off from memory and Tomasetti writes it down.

"You got your cell on you?" he asks.

"Sure, I-" The kid's eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to take it." Tomasetti holds out his hand. "Give it to me."

The kid wants to refuse. I see it in his face and in the way he can't quite make himself reach into his pocket to get it out. But he must see something in Tomasetti's eyes, because after a moment, he produces the phone. "That cost me plenty."

"We're just going to take a look, see if it will help us with a time line." He removes an evidence bag from his pocket and the boy drops the phone into it. "You'll get it back."

Justin doesn't believe him, and looks away. "Whatever."

"You know, Justin, it would have been helpful if you'd come to us when she first went missing," G.o.ddard says.

"So that's what you're calling it?" Treece looks from G.o.ddard to me to Tomasetti. "She's missing?"

"Her parents just filed a missing-person report," I tell him.

"I figured she was fine," the boy says. "How was I supposed to know?"

"You could have tried using that thing between your ears," Tomasetti tells him.

The teenager gives him a "f.u.c.k you" look.

"Does she have any other friends she might have taken off with?" G.o.ddard asks.

Justin shakes his head. "Most of her friends are Amish."

"Did she have transportation?" I ask.

Another shake. "Not that I know of. She couldn't afford a car." He chuckles. "I let her drive mine once and she took out old man Heath's mailbox."

"So you just a.s.sumed she'd walked somewhere?" Tomasetti asks.

"Or took the bus." His voice turns belligerent. "Look, we're friends, but I ain't her f.u.c.kin' keeper."

"How did you meet her?" I ask.

"She was walking along the road. It was raining, so I stopped and asked her if she wanted a ride. She got in." He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. "I offered her a cigarette and she smoked it." He smiles. "It was funny, because she was wearing that old-lady dress-you know, the Amish getup. We hit it off."

"Are you involved in a relationship with her?" Tomasetti asks.

"Well ... we're friends ... mostly."

Tomasetti sighs. "Are you sleeping with her, Justin?"

To his credit, the kid blushes. "I guess. I mean, we did it a few times. But we weren't like boyfriend and girlfriend or anything like that. I'm not ready to get tied down, so I set the boundary right off the bat."

Silence falls and all of us stand there, caught up in our own thoughts. The two little girls watch the scene from the kitchen, eating chips from a bag. Tomasetti's trying not to look at them, but he's not quite managing.

I look at Justin. "If you wanted to get out of Buck Creek so badly, why didn't you go with her?" I ask.

He laughs. "I don't think my probation officer would appreciate that."

A few minutes later, Tomasetti and I are sitting in the Tahoe, waiting for G.o.ddard to start rolling. Tomasetti is staring out the window, brooding and preoccupied. I'm trying to find the right words, when he beats me to the punch.

"What the h.e.l.l are people doing to their kids, Kate?"

It's not the kind of statement I'm accustomed to hearing from him. He's more apt to spout off some politically incorrect joke than a serious philosophical question, and it takes me a moment to find my feet. "Not everyone treats their kids that way."

"Too many do."

I want to argue. Only I can't, because he's right. So I let it stand. "We do what we can, Tomasetti. We can't control everything."

"That b.i.t.c.h in there doesn't deserve those little kids."

"I know."

"She's going to f.u.c.k up their lives the same way she f.u.c.ked up her own."

"You can't say that for sure."

His laugh is bitter. "Since when are you the optimist?"

"Don't get cynical on me, Tomasetti."

"That's kind of like asking the ocean not to be wet." But he doesn't smile as he stares out the window. "We take so much for granted. I wish I had five minutes with my kids. Just five lousy minutes to say the things I didn't say when they were alive."

Tension climbs up my shoulders and into my neck. This is the first time he's talked about his children with this level of intimacy, this kind of emotion. It's the first time he's mentioned regret or allowed me a glimpse of his pain. I don't have children. But I know what it's like to lose a loved one. I've been to that dark place and I know firsthand the toll it can take.

"That's human nature," I tell him. "We take things for granted. All of us do."

He says nothing.

"I'm sure they knew you loved them," I say, but I feel as if I'm floundering.

"When I was on a case, I'd go for days without seeing them. Even when I was home, when I worked late, I didn't kiss them good night. I didn't tuck them in. I barely looked at them some days. Half the time, I didn't even f.u.c.king miss them. What the h.e.l.l kind of parent doesn't miss his kids?"

I glance over at him. He's gripping the wheel tightly, staring straight ahead, and I think, s.h.i.t. "Tomasetti..."

He tosses me a sideways look. "I don't remember the last words I said to them, Kate. I was in a hurry that morning. Had some big f.u.c.king meeting. Some meeting that didn't mean anything to anyone. I didn't know that the next time I saw them would be in the morgue."

It's difficult, but I hold his gaze. "You loved them. They knew it. That's what counts."

"I didn't keep them safe."