The librarian pointed to a shelf of phone books when I asked. I wanted not only Traverse City Area but Kalkaska, Leetsville, and Mancelona. One girl was a Lisa Valient. Her mother was Fern Valient of Washington Street, right there in Traverse City.

I found Fern Valient, still on Washington Street, and wrote down the address and phone number. It seemed a good thing to simply call her. But this matter felt too delicate. I didn’t have the right, or the necessary power, to go snooping back into the woman’s life. I’d need Dolly with me. Her little gold badge could open doors. A reporter was different from a cop. The cop could scare the heck out of people. A reporter only irritated. But then, I told myself, this might make a good story: girls missing all these years. What happened to them? Where were the investigations? I’d have to call Bill first and make sure he wanted the story. I didn’t want to misrepresent myself, or the paper. It didn’t do to get a reputation for sneakiness up here where stories spread like wildfire and reputations got ruined by stupidity.

I found two Robbins in Kalkaska. I wrote down both addresses and numbers and wondered how we could go about finding the right Robbins; the family that belonged to Tricia.

There was no Lincoln in Mancelona. I looked up Bambi’s sister, Tanya Lincoln of Elk Rapids, and made note of the address and phone number

There were no Naqumas in Leetsville. None in Mancelona. None in Kalkaska. None in Traverse City. There was no Lena Smith in Peshawbestown. I left the library, got my Jeep out of the college parking lot, and drove back to Front Street, passing knots of students enjoying the spring day playing wild games of Frisbee or leaning on trees and dreamily watching the bright sky. A few were obviously involved in that old spring game of hooking up, young girls and guys leaning into each other, laughing at something only they understood. As I drove off campus and over to Garfield, where I made a left turn, I took note of who passed me and who looked my way. Leetsvillians, with their uncanny power to know things they shouldn’t know, were spooking me. Then I had that mysterious Indian man looking for me. It felt like the beginnings of paranoia, I scoffed at myself. Still, I couldn’t shake the deep-down uneasiness triggering fear.

Everything looked normal around me. The white-haired guy in the Mercedes at the light didn’t turn my way. The lady with two kids strapped into their seats in back of the SUV talked busily over her shoulder. Teenage girls out hoping to be seen in Daddy’s Ford—they certainly ignored me. Traverse City was gearing up for summer. More traffic, more people on the streets. Even in the little park near Garfield, where I’d turned to go to the newspaper office, people flew kites and chased each other like the swooping robins coming at my car back on Willow Lake Road. Summer, in this northern town, took on a thick overlay of crowds coming up to escape the heat and the congestion of the big city. People came for the lake that would soon be littered with white triangles of sails. Little by little, the town shook off the sleepiness of winter and became a “fun” town. The locals might grit their teeth and pray for rain as the Cherry Festival came and went, and as the intellectual crowd showed up for Michael Moore’s film festival, but they loved it all.

I had called Bill and told him I was coming. At the newspaper, in its ivy-covered red brick building, the cheerful woman behind the desk called him to say I was there. I waited, reading that day’s newspaper, until he walked up the hall, put his hands out to take mine, then put an arm around my back.

“Glad to see you, Emily.” He bowed his large, mop-haired head close and grinned as he guided me through the maze of offices and desks to his, at the back of the building. “Good stuff you’re getting on those murders.”

“Yes, it is going well …”

“Detective Brent sent over two photos. Both skeletons. Got anything more on ’em yet?”

I was surprised Brent had been such a help. For a moment I wondered what it would cost me—his cooperation—then told myself I’d been cynical enough for one day. Accept help where help was offered and let it go at that.

“That second one is probably Deputy Dolly Wakowski’s husband,” I said. “He’s been gone for thirteen years. She thought he ran off with another woman.”

“Looks as if that could be the case,” he said dryly, guiding me gently into his small, littered office and pointing to a low chair in front of his desk.

I took a stack of newspapers off the chair and set them on the floor.

“Do a story on them both. I’d say go talk to the Indians, but they’re going to be after those bones. You bring something for me today?”

“The deputy asked me to wait for a positive ID before I got it in the paper that this second skeleton is Dolly’s husband.”

Bill nodded and began to push papers around on his desk, moving a pile from one side to the other, then back again in a futile attempt to make room to write notes.

The dark oak desk, which looked like something scrounged from a back alley, was overrun with paper and books and buried things peeking out beneath the piles. Stacks of books and newspapers stood close to the walls.

“How long you think it’ll take? The Detroit papers are already sniffing around. I’d like to get there first.”

“Depends on forensics. Bone marrow. Hair. Dental records. But Dolly’s got reason to be pretty sure that’s who these latest bones belong to.”

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Tough for your friend.” He nodded that head of shaggy brown hair. It fell over his eyes as he appeared to drop into deep, serious thought. “Well, get me something by tomorrow early. And some other photos, Emily. I’d like to run photos of the lake, if nothing else. You and Dolly looking into any of this yourselves?”

I wasn’t sure I should admit to our plans or not. But this was Bill. Big, charming, warm Bill.

“I’m researching lost girls from about that long ago.”

He raised his eyebrows, then stuck his middle finger up, and pushed at the heavy glasses sliding down his nose. I knew better than to take it personally. I guessed that was the only finger he had free sometimes. Maybe due to having ink on his hands from all those newspapers he read; or mayo from the sandwiches he ate at his desk. He reminded me of that guy from Lake Woebegon, a little better looking, but just as hapless.

“I’ll run anything you find. It’s just that … well … we don’t want to go hurting families whose girls never came back … ”

“I’ll be circumspect,” I promised. “Still, it’s a good story. Thirteen-year follow-up. Did they come back? Where’d they go? What’s happened since? And if they never returned and were never heard from, where is the investigation today? But listen, if I don’t need the story I’ll drop it.” I took a deep breath. “And Dolly will let me know when I can give you her husband’s name.”

He frowned and looked more like “Lake Woebegon” than ever.

“The more I think about it, let’s wait on those disappearance stories. And don’t forget you’re working for us on this. I mean, if you learn something you think needs to come out and Dolly says ‘no,’ well, you have an obligation …”

I assured him I knew where my allegiance lay. “And I have an obligation not to lose my source over there. Dolly’s really good about keeping me informed.”

He sniffed, took a swipe at his nose, and fixed his glasses while he was in the area.

“Just remember, the cops’ll always sit on things until they need our help. Then we’re OK again.”

Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. I’d get what I could for him, but I knew I’d never betray Dolly. Especially not this time, when things were falling so close to where she lived, and had loved.

“Speaking of being loyal to the paper,” I began, smiling widely, “I could really use more work. If something opens up here full-time, well, would you keep me in mind?”

His heavy brows came together, almost hiding his deep-set brown eyes. He steepled his wide hands at his chest and bit at his bottom lip.

“Nothing right now. Paper’s cutting back. You know what’s happening to newspapers across the country. Internet’s stealing ads. But I can promise to give you as much as I can.”

I sighed and smiled as wide as I could get my lips to go, which wasn’t far since my whole face felt tight. “Thanks,” I said.

He sat up straight, the first step to rising from his chair and ushering me out of there.

“Hey, I’m coming to that dinner your ex is giving. You?”

I frowned. “What dinner?”

“Thursday night. He said you’d be there, too. Told me to bring a date.” He gave me an odd look.

“Guess I forgot,” I lied.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Bill said, planting his large hands on the desk and standing, giving the eternal signal that our meeting was finished. “He’s an interesting guy, your ex.”

I forced a wide smile, and said, between clenched teeth, “Yes, isn’t he.”

“Been a lot of places. Bright guy.”

“Yes, isn’t he,” I said again, feeling my cheeks begin to ache.

“So,” Bill walked around his desk. “I’ll bring a bottle of wine and, I guess, we’ll see you out there.”

That “we’ll” bothered me. It was enough that Jackson co-opted one of my friends; one of my professional connections. Now I had to think of Bill as linked to someone, a woman. A date. I had no romantic ideas about him. It was more that I needed him to stand alone, to be at the other end of a phone line when I needed him. There had to be someone I could count on not to be too busy, not to be out on dates, not to be neglecting his work … but to be focused on me when I needed him. It was tough, learning that Bill wasn’t going to be that man.

___

“Damn,” I said as I drove back toward Leetsville with my information on missing girls, my disappointment at not getting the job at the paper, and my depression over losing a guy I never had to some faceless female Jackson had forced out of the woodwork.