I GOT INTO bed with my laptop and looked for news, but there’d been no new developments during the day. The police were still “looking into the situation.” I took a look at the Snoop, too, which featured mostly Soundview-centric information about town government, schools, and complaints about leaf-blower noise. But I purposefully stayed off video chat and IMs.

Later I lay in the dark with unanswered questions instead of dreams. If Dad had no connection to the three missing girls, why was he thinking about hiring a lawyer? Who was vengeance13773288@gmail.com, and what did he know about this? And what had Dad apologized to Mom for, knowing ahead of time that she wouldn’t accept his apology?

I woke with a jolt, the alarm like a buzz saw five inches from my ear. I felt like I’d hardly slept at all, but sunlight filtered in through the shades. Fumbling to turn off the alarm, I accidentally knocked it to the floor, where it continued to buzz out of reach. Burying my head under the pillows didn’t work, so finally I dragged my sleep-deprived body out of bed. But even before I hit the shower, I checked the computer. Roman was on. Sometimes I wondered if she ever slept.

“S’up?” I asked with a yawn.

“Have you seen what’s on TV this morning?” she asked.

Despite the cobwebs in my brain, I knew her question meant bad news. “Oh God, now what?”

On the screen, I watched as Roman aimed her webcam at the small TV on her desk. A teenage girl was being interviewed by a news anchor in a studio. In the top right corner of the screen was a small box with a photo. It took a moment for me to realize it was Dad.

“So how did this scam, as you call it, work?” the blonde anchorwoman asked the girl.

“My friends and I were at the mall one day, and this woman came up to me and asked if I’d ever considered modeling,” the girl said.

“And what made you think she was a legitimate modeling agent?” asked the anchorwoman.

“She didn’t ask all of us. Just me. She said I had the right look, and she gave me her business card. It all seemed very professional.”

“What happened next?”

“She said that she was part of a team from New York that was in town for the weekend scouting for talent, and that if I was interested, I should talk to my parents and then come to this hotel for head shots and to sign with the agency.”

“Which you did?”

The girl nodded. “I got my mom to take me later that afternoon. They had a whole suite, and there was all this photography equipment and a stylist and a photographer’s assistant. They had me dress up in different outfits and they took my picture. And then the agent gave me a contract, and my mom read it. She said it sounded okay and I could sign it.”

“What did the contract say?”

“My mom read it, so I don’t really know. All she told me was that if the modeling agency got me any jobs, they would get a percentage of what I earned. Which sounded fair.”

“Only they never got you any jobs?” the anchorwoman said.

The girl shook her head. “None. We waited for a while, and then called the agency a couple of times, and they said that business was slow and they would be in touch as soon as anything came up that they thought I was right for.”

“Did they ever call?”

“No.”

“Okay,” said the anchorwoman. “Let’s go back to the day you were discovered, so to speak. How much did you have to pay for those head shots?”

“About seven hundred dollars.”

“Were there any other fees?”

“Yes. Three hundred and fifty for the stylist to do my hair and makeup. And two hundred dollars for the contract processing fee and my credentials.”

“What did they mean by credentials?”

“Like all the information about me that went on the back of the head shots, and a business card with my photo and contact information and the agency name on it.”

“A business card that it turns out you could have ordered yourself for under twenty-five dollars?” the anchorwoman said.

The girl nodded.

“In fact, you and your mom did some research to figure out what all this would have cost had you done it on your own?”

“Yes,” the girl said. “We figured out that we could have done it all for about four hundred dollars.”

“And yet, you were charged well over a thousand?”

“Uh-huh,” said the girl.

The image on my computer screen swiveled around as Roman aimed her webcam back at herself. “Seen enough?”

I was stunned. A scam? A modeling agent stopping girls in malls? A photographer and his crew from New York taking over a hotel suite?

“It has to be a mistake. It doesn’t sound like Dad. He doesn’t go around renting hotel suites. He’s got his own studio here in town.”

“Didn’t you once tell me he goes away a lot on the weekends?”

“But that’s to shoot weddings and parties.”

“You’re sure?”

Was I sure? The question hovered invisibly between us.

No, I wasn’t.

Not anymore.