The Never List

in the South, farmers had to quit working early because of the heat.
    It was four o’clock now, the hottest part of the day.
    We knocked and heard someone calling from inside. A man in his early sixties opened the door, which I noticed hadn’t been locked. He looked as if he’d just woken up from a nap, as he stood before us in jeans and a white T-shirt, no shoes. I hoped he would invite us inside, where I could feel the air-conditioning so crisp and cold, my skin drew toward it involuntarily.
    “Can I help you?” the man said in a friendly and polite, if not welcoming, voice. He must have thought we were selling something, but there was no trace of rudeness. And he didn’t seem to notice or object to Tracy’s unorthodox appearance, even as her facial piercings glinted in the bright sun.
    Tracy took the lead. “Mr. Dunham, we are here about your daughter.”
    Instantly, a look of dazed dread passed across his face. I realized he must have thought we were here to tell him she was dead, so I quickly jumped in.
    “She is fine, sir.” His face relaxed instantly. “Well, at least we hope she is. We don’t really know her, but we want to get in touch with her. We need to ask her a few questions.”
    “Is she in any trouble?” he asked, clearly pained. My heart was breaking already.
    “No … no, sir, not that we know of. She just might be a … witness to something.”
    “Something that husband of hers has done?” His voice was gruff, and I could see the muscles in his neck tense. I thought he might cry.
    “It’s related to him,” I said, “but we’re not at liberty to discuss the details right now.” It was almost the truth.
    “You’re with the police?” he asked, squinting at Tracy.
    “No, not exactly,” she replied, “but they’re … aware of our investigation.”
    He peered at us, sizing us up. For the first time I thought he noticed Tracy’s partially shaved head, because he leaned in closely to see her. Nevertheless, he paused only for a split second before inviting us in.
    “Erline,” he called out in his lilting accent, “we’ve got some visitors.” He smiled at us warmly then, even though we must have been stirring up his pain. I liked him instinctively. How had any daughter of this man ended up married to Jack Derber?
    His wife came out to the entryway to greet us, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped toward us. We introduced ourselves, but didn’t use our real names.
    “What, Dan’s got you standing out there in that heat? Come on in, girls! Have a seat.”
    We went into their bright living room and sank into the broad floral-patterned sofas. Wall-to-wall carpeting gave the space an almost womblike feel, and the perfectly controlled climate turned it into its own little biosphere. It was immaculately clean, smelling a little of the fake freshness of powdered room deodorizers.
    I was puzzled. I had assumed Sylvia came from a broken or abusive home. Someplace where her self-esteem had been shattered early on, making her vulnerable to someone like Jack. Not this cozy little outpost in the backwoods of America.
    Dan Dunham turned to his wife, who was looking at him expectantly.
    I wished suddenly we hadn’t come here to disturb this sweet couple who were clearly grieving for their daughter who was as lost to them as I had been to my parents all those years ago. I looked over at Tracy. I could see she was feeling something too. These two people were also victims of Jack Derber. Victims in a different way, but victims nonetheless.
    Dan began. “Erline, they are here about Sylvia. She’s not hurt,” he said quickly, “but they’d like to find her to ask her some questions. They think she may be a witness to something.”
    “Well,” Erline said, drawing herself up tall and looking off into the distance, “we wouldn’t be able to help you much on that front. She doesn’t have much to do with us these days.”
    Dan continued for her. “It’s been over seven years, as a matter of fact, since she left here to join that religious group. I don’t know why she had to go so far away. We’ve got plenty of them right around here. It’s the Bible Belt, after all.”
    “How did … how did Sylvia manage to get involved with one so far away?”
    He sighed. “It was all on those computers. We don’t have one here at the house, but she would spend hours at the library in town.”
    “She found the group online?” I asked, surprised.
    He nodded. “There was no