“Media?” He stared at me over looming bifocals. “What media?”

“Chief Vickery, I’m Camille Preaker, with the Daily Post in Chicago.”

“Chicago? Why are you here from Chicago?”

“I’d like to speak with you about the little girls—Natalie Keene and the girl who was murdered last year.”

“Jesus H. Christ. How’d you hear about this up there? Jesus Christ.”

He looked at the receptionist, then back to me, as if we’d collaborated. Then he motioned to me to follow. “Hold my calls, Ruth.”

The receptionist rolled her eyes.

Bill Vickery walked ahead of me down a wood-paneled hallway checked with cheap framed photos of trout and horses, then into his office, which had no window, which was in fact a tiny square lined with metal files. He sat down, lit a cigarette. Didn’t offer me one.

“I don’t want this to get out, Miss. I have no intention of letting this get out.”

“I’m afraid, Chief Vickery, that there’s not too much choice in the matter. Children are being targeted. The public should be aware.” It’s the line I’d been mouthing on the drive down. It directs fault to the gods.

“What do you care? They’re not your kids, they’re Wind Gap kids.” He stood up, sat back down, rearranged some papers. “I bet I’m pretty safe to say Chicago never cared about Wind Gap kids before.” His voice cracked at the end. Vickery sucked on his cigarette, twisted a chunky gold pinky ring, blinked in quick succession. I wondered suddenly if he was going to cry.

“You’re right. Probably not. Look, this isn’t going to be some sort of exploitive story. It’s important. If it makes you feel any better, I’m from Wind Gap.” There you go, Curry. I’m trying.

He looked back at me. Stared at my face.

“What’s your name?”