“How sweet. Did she say anything that might be useful here? Was she worried? Scared?”

Theo was immediately caught in a vise. He could not lie to a police officer, yet he could not tell a secret that he’d promised he wouldn’t tell. So he fudged a bit by saying, “I don’t recall anything like that.” Mrs. Finnemore was no longer crying; she was staring intensely at Theo, her eyes glowing.

“What did you talk about?” Sergeant Bolick asked. A detective in plainclothes entered the room and listened carefully.

“The usual stuff. School, homework, I don’t remember everything.” Theo had watched enough trials to know that answers should often be kept vague, and that “I don’t recall” and “I don’t remember” were perfectly acceptable in many instances.

“Did you chat online?” the detective asked.

“No, sir, not last night. Just phone.” They often used Facebook and text messages, but Theo knew not to volunteer information. Just answer the question in front of you. He’d heard his mother say this to her clients many times.

“Any sign of a break-in?” Mr. Boone asked.

“None,” said Bolick. “Mrs. Finnemore was sound asleep in the downstairs bedroom, she heard nothing, and at some point she got up to check on April. That’s when she realized she was gone.”

Theo looked at Mrs. Finnemore, who again shot him a fierce look. He knew the truth, and she knew he knew the truth. Trouble was, Theo couldn’t tell the truth because he’d made a promise to April.

The truth was that Mrs. Finnemore had not been home for the past two nights. April had been living alone, terrified, with all the doors and windows locked as tightly as possible; with a chair jammed against her bedroom door; with an old baseball bat across the end of her bed; with the phone close and ready to dial 911, and with no one in the world to talk to but Theodore Boone, who had vowed not to tell a soul. Her father was out of town with his band. Her mother was taking pills and losing her mind.