“Ten years,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, then realized I’d just said that a moment earlier.

Marlinchen Hennessy moved on. “My father is Hugh Hennessy, the writer.” She looked for recognition in my face. “He wrote The Channel?” she prompted.

“That sounds familiar,” I said, “but we’re getting off the point. Where is your father today?”

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“What I’m wondering is why he’s sent his 17-year-old daughter to deal with the Sheriff’s Department instead of coming himself,” I explained.

“He doesn’t know about Aidan,” Marlinchen said quickly. “He’s up north, in a cabin he owns near Tait Lake. It’s kind of remote, and it doesn’t have a phone.”

Her eyes had an odd glitter to them. It looked like alarm, but I didn’t understand its source.

“Dad goes there to write,” she said. “When his work isn’t going well, he needs lots of quiet and solitude. But he didn’t start going up there until I was old enough to take care of my three younger brothers. He’s very responsible.”

She’d veered off into a defense of her father’s parenting methods, for no reason I could ascertain. I tried to bring her back on course.

“But there’s someone who can go get him, right?” I said. “A neighbor, a ranger, somebody like that? I’m just saying that this is something Aidan’s father should know about.”

That remark didn’t quite have the calming effect I’d planned.

“I don’t understand why there’s this emphasis on my father!” Marlinchen said, her voice rising. “He’s not a policeman. He’s not going to find Aidan. That’s the job of the police, and they’re not doing anything as far as I can tell!”

I tapped the end of a pencil against my desk. “If this is the quality of cooperation you’re giving the police in Georgia,” I said, “it’s hard for me to imagine what they could do for you.”

“I shouldn’t have come,” Marlinchen said quickly, jumping to her feet.