Five Days in Summer

work.”
    “What should I do?” It was part plea and part comment.
    “You should both try to get some rest,” Amy said. “No one can think straight when they’re sleep deprived. It’ll help put things into perspective.”
    Will shook his head. “I’m pretty much out of perspective right now.”
    “Maybe she’s right, Will,” Sarah said. “We can take turns watching the children.”
    “This one alone must be a handful.” Amy smiled at the baby. “How much do the older kids know?”
    “I’m not sure,” Will said. “Obviously Emily’s not here.”
    “Well, then they know everything. You might notbelieve this, but I’ve seen all kinds of outcomes to these cases. Sometimes they do just turn up, with all sorts of explanations.” It was an exaggeration, but she never told families the truth at first: that missing persons cases rarely concluded happily.
    “John Geary’s helping me.” Will said it fast, like a confession. “I asked him to.”
    “I’m not convinced that’s the best move,” Amy said. “Geary has a... history.”
    “He said he was on top at the FBI, behavioral science. He seems to have experience.”
    “Oh, he’s got experience all right. And he doesn’t lie about his credentials. He was right there at the top. But it’s complicated—”
    “If he can help find her—”
    “Just be careful, Mr. Parker. John Geary doesn’t do everything by the book.”
    One of the other detectives had done a little digging when Geary first appeared at the station house, touting his credentials like peacock feathers. Amy had been as interested as everyone else to learn that Geary had faced a pretty serious sexual harassment charge halfway into his long career at Quantico. In the end, the case was dropped, largely on the basis of a psychological review that said Geary wasn’t remotely capable of breaking the law. It seemed to Amy that personal transgression laws were seen differently by different generations of men and women, which was why the harassment laws had been passed in the first place, to stop jerks from playing with women who were just trying to do their jobs.
    “I’d like to look around, if you don’t mind.”
    “Of course,” Sarah said. “Come in.”
    Amy followed them inside. It was a lovely house, strewn with toys and filled with antiques, Oriental rugsand the spattering of nautical lore that was inevitable in nearly all Cape homes. The walls were crowded with original paintings, mostly figurative, a few abstract.
    “Someone collect art?” Amy asked.
    “I’m a painter,” Sarah answered. “Used to be. I haven’t painted since my husband died.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “It was just last winter.” Sarah bent down to pick up a plastic sword that was lying across their path.
    Amy looked around; the rest of the place was consistent with her first impression. It was a family, not atypical, just on the other side of chaos. Nothing in particular caught her interest until she got to the kitchen, where she immediately noticed the floor. It was wood, like the rest of the flooring in the house, but the color was uneven. A rectangle in the center, covering nearly the entire surface, was much lighter than the edges, which were darker and scuffed. She made a note of it, with a question mark she was able to cross off moments later when she passed through a laundry room and stepped into the garage.
    On one side of the two-car garage was a gold Ford Taurus station wagon, and on the other side were all sorts of gardening tools and equipment. But what interested Amy most was the rolled-up rug standing in the corner.
    “Was that rug in the kitchen?” Amy asked.
    “It’s just an old thing,” Sarah said. “I was planning to take it to the dump.”
    “Can we unroll it?”
    “Emily’s gone,” Will said, “and you want to spend time looking at Sarah’s rug?”
    “I’d like to, yes.”
    Taking the baby from Sarah’s arms, Will went intothe house through the laundry room. He let the screen door bounce noisily shut behind him. Sarah stood in the garage, staring at the rug.
    “I knocked the rest of our pizza onto the floor last night when I was getting Maxi some juice.” Sarah squeezed shut her eyes. “I’ve always hated that rug but my husband had to have it — in the kitchen, no less. I had the boys roll it up with me. Honestly, Detective, I was happy for the distraction. Waiting for Emily was more than I could handle.”
    “Mrs. Goodman—”
    “She isn’t here,”