A reporter speaking in front of the Ashford house.
Then Glenn Ashford appeared.
Lily's father.
Cole had seen the clip before.
Glenn stood beside Detective Patricia Welden and tried to ask whoever had taken Lily to bring her home.
He made it halfway through the sentence.
Then his voice disappeared.
He turned away from the microphones and covered his face.
Cole knew that soundless collapse.
He knew what it was to reach a moment when grief became too large for words.
He looked away from the television.
That was when he saw the girl outside.
She was sitting on the curb beside the ice machine.
Her knees were pulled toward her chest.
She looked six or seven years old.
Her blond hair had been separated into two braids, although one was coming apart and several strands had stuck to her cheek in the heat.
She wore a faded pink jacket despite the temperature.
It was zipped halfway up.
Cole recognized immediately that the jacket was not about warmth.
Children sometimes attached themselves to objects because objects stayed where they were put.
A blanket.
A stuffed animal.
An old shirt.
A jacket.
Something familiar to hold against a world that often moved without warning.
Her sneakers were worn through near both toes.
She was alone.
Cole paid for his water and jerky.
When he walked outside, the heat wrapped itself around him again.
He stopped near the door and scanned the lot.
A pickup truck was leaving the far pump.
A delivery van was parked near the dumpsters.
An elderly couple stood beside a sedan checking directions.
Nobody was looking for the child.
Nobody called her name.
No parent was walking toward her.
Cole took another look toward Route 42.
Nothing.
A tractor-trailer roared past, its horn blasting.
The girl did not flinch.
That bothered him.
Most children her age would have jumped.
She barely blinked.
Cole walked closer, then crouched about three feet from her.
He kept his distance.
His father had taught him years ago that frightened horses and frightened children had something in common.
You did not trap them.
You gave them room.
"Hey there," Cole said.
His voice was naturally low and rough.
Even when he tried to sound gentle, there was gravel in it.
"You waiting on somebody?"
The girl raised her head.
Her eyes were green.
Wide.
Still.
Too still.
Cole had seen frightened children before.
He had seen angry ones, shy ones, loud ones, and children who hid behind their parents' legs.
This girl was different.
She studied him.
Not casually.
She examined him.
His face.
His vest.
His patches.
His arms.
The motorcycle behind him.
She looked at adults the way somebody might inspect a bridge before deciding whether it was safe enough to cross.
Cole remained still.
After several seconds, the girl stood.
She walked toward him.
Cole expected her to ask for help.
Instead, she reached out and gripped the leather edge of his vest.
Her fingers were small.
For a moment, Cole forgot to breathe.
She rose onto her toes until her mouth was beside his ear.
Then she whispered.
"I know where they hid her."
Cole froze.
The words entered him in a place he had kept closed for five years.
He slowly leaned away.
The girl looked directly into his eyes.
There was no smile.
No excitement at possessing a secret.
No childish exaggeration.
Only certainty.
"Who?" Cole asked.