Five Days in Summer

stepped back, away from the car. Then he smiled and stepped toward them.
    “Would you boys like to get in?”
    David shrugged but Sam jumped on the offer. He slid right into the driver’s side, leaving copilot for David. It wasn’t fair — he was older, but he’d hesitated. They sat in the car and pretended they were racing together in the Grand Prix.
    “Boys.” Grandma’s voice snapped them out of it.“I’m showing Dr. Bell to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
    The grown-ups went inside and David saw his chance.
    “Come on.” He got out of the car. “Don’t slam the door. Be quiet.”
    “Why?”
    “Are you coming?”
    Sam got out and eased shut his door.
    David walked up the drive, past his grandma’s gardens, toward the old Indian road.
    “I don’t think they want us to leave the house,” Sam said, trailing behind his big brother.
    “It doesn’t matter,” David said. “We have no choice.”
    As soon as the house passed from view, David broke into a run. The dirt road was long and narrow and crowded with trees on either side, nearly blanking out the sky. Sunlight glinted through the web of leaves. The whole family loved this magic road, and when his mother drove, she slowed down so they could float in the cool green light.

Chapter 22
    Amy Cardoza sat alone at a computer in the report-writing room, updating . She sipped her cold coffee. It tasted like bitter sludge but she drank the rest of it. She hadn’t slept all night and she needed the caffeine.
    She typed a paragraph about yesterday’s press conference, editing out her own point of view, which skewed it in her memory like a bad dream: standing stony-faced with Sorensen, Kaminer and Geary in front of the police station; tired eyes dazed by the television lights; the shallow sensation of a shortness of breath; working to keep all expression off her face as Chief Kaminer delivered the agreed-upon statement into a bouquet of microphones:
    “Emily Parker disappeared from the parking lot in front of a grocery store in Mashpee on the afternoon of Monday, September third. The timing and manner of her disappearance suggest we may be looking for a serial abductor.”
    “What makes you think it’s a repeater?” Amy recognized the crime reporter from the Boston Globe : wiry with big glasses. She had seen him interviewed on TV.
    “We can’t comment on that right now.”
    “Do you have any leads?” asked a young man from a Rhode Island local station.
    “We’re considering every possibility. There are several suspects we’re looking at right now but that’s all we can say at this time.”
    “In the past, have the victims been found alive?” It was a woman’s voice; Amy couldn’t see her behind the more aggressive front row.
    Kaminer glanced at Sorensen, whose eyes slid away.
    “I’m afraid I can’t comment on that right now, either.”
    “What are the odds Mrs. Parker is still alive?” The reporter from CNN leaned forward.
    “We’ll hold another press conference tomorrow,” Kaminer said, “but at the moment there’s no reason to think she isn’t. We’re very hopeful we’ll find her alive.” He looked right into the camera, eyes narrowing, and seemed to address Mr. White directly: “We’ll search every square inch of the Cape. We’ll search the state. We’ll search the whole country. There will be no place left for you to hide.”
    There were a few moments of eerie silence, broken by Sorensen’s assistant, Janet, who passed out copies of Emily Parker’s photograph. Emily was an attractive woman, and in this picture, she looked relaxed, and she was smiling. Why were they always smiling?
    “One more question, Chief.”
    “That’s it for now. Thank you.” The team turned around and walked back into the station. The reporters chased them all the way to the door.
    Amy hoped the cruiser Kaminer had ordered to sit at the entrance of Gooseberry Way had succeeded in keeping the vultures away from the family. It was all they needed now, to be hounded by the press.
    She scrolled down the computer screen and beganher summary of the next item: the forensics report just back on the rug from the Goodman-Parker garage: nothing but typical household dirt and fibers, sand, soil, and pizza sauce. Chalk one up for the old man. Geary had a powerful instinct, she had to admit it. How had he known with such certainty she’d be wasting their time on the rug? She typed a brief paragraph, for the record, and left it at that.
    She