Chapter Four

      Daniel Olson’s house was a typical home in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn. A two-story Cape Cod on a quiet side street, it sat on a small parcel of land between two similar houses, and had a tiny front lawn and a stone pavement leading to the front door.

      Olson opened the door himself when Casey, Claire and Hero arrived, along with a tote bag and their STU-100—or “canine vacuum,” as Ryan called it—from which Casey would make scent pads for Hero. Casey introduced Claire and then Hero, both of whom Mr. Olson had expected.

      Claire shook the older man’s hand, almost wincing with pain upon contact. Casey had described his condition to the whole FI team. Still, Claire could feel death emanate from every pore of his body. She also felt a wave of bleakness when she looked at him. It didn’t take a psychic to know that the man had very little time left. He was frail and wan, with deep, dark circles under his eyes. But the sadness in those eyes had nothing to do with death, which Claire sensed he’d made peace with. It had everything to do with finding closure with regard to his daughter.

      “Come in,” he invited them, stepping aside so they could cross the threshold into the foyer. “Can I offer you anything? Maybe some water for your dog?”

      “Nothing, thank you.” Casey spoke up for the three of them. The last thing they wanted was for this poor ill man to wait on them. “As I told you last night, we just want to see Jan’s room, physically handle anything of hers that had special meaning and make scent pads for Hero. We’ll stay only as long as necessary.”

      Olson picked up on the compassion in Casey’s voice and gave a slight shake of his head. “I appreciate your consideration. But please, take your time. Anything that can help you, any opportunity you see that can aid you in finding out what happened to Jan—please take it. Quite frankly, you truly are my last hope.”

      “We’ll do everything we can.” Casey could already feel the knot in her stomach tightening. She wanted to dash upstairs and uncover their answers in one fell swoop. It wasn’t going to happen. She had to be patient. But she wasn’t going to fail, either. She was going to give this man the closure he needed, and maybe find that same closure for herself.

      They all filed upstairs. Mr. Olson led them to the bedroom on the left side of the corridor that belonged to Jan, gesturing for them to go in. He himself hesitated in the doorway, glancing from Claire to Casey.

      “I don’t know how this works,” he confessed. “Is it better if I leave you to your own devices? Or is it better if I stay? Whatever Ms. Hedgleigh’s process is, I don’t want to interfere.”

      Claire gave him that gentle smile of hers. “Please stay,” she said. “I might have questions for you. If I’m drawn to a particular object, I want you to tell me about it—everything you remember about its place in Jan’s life. You’re her father. You helped raise her. You’d be surprised how helpful your input can be.”

      The older man sighed. “I wish Jan’s mother was still alive. She’d remember far more than I do. She was a traditional housewife. She believed in staying home during Jan’s younger years. She was so much more familiar with the details of her life than I am.”

      “Jan is an only child?” Claire asked, careful to use the present tense. There was no point in upsetting Mr. Olson, not until they had concrete proof that Jan was dead.

      He nodded. “We wanted more children. But it wasn’t meant to be.”

      Casey gazed at the room as Claire made her way slowly around. It was the bedroom of an average teenage girl—white furniture, peacock blue walls, a matching comforter and curtains and possessions that ranged from the eye shadow and lip gloss of a young adult to the figurines and stuffed animals of a young girl.

      “When did Jan last redecorate?” Casey asked.

      “In high school,” her father replied. “The furniture hasn’t changed, just the arrangement of the pieces. She painted the walls and picked out the matching bed and window coverings. But she kept her favorite things from childhood.”

      “Is this one of them?” Claire was holding a child’s jewelry box, which, when opened, displayed a little spinning ballerina.

      Olson nodded. “That was a gift from her grandparents. She got it when she was six. The jewelry that went inside it changed over the years, but the box itself stayed the same, right down to its position on her dresser.”

      Claire was only half listening. She wore a look of intense concentration. “Happy memories,” she murmured. “Lots of warm, positive energy.” She fingered a few of the pieces inside—a slim bangle bracelet, a silver chain necklace, a pair of gold stud earrings—then placed the box back on the dresser and turned to squat beside a book bag. “When did she get this?” she asked, letting her fingertips brush the dark maroon canvas.

      Mr. Olson’s expression clouded. “Right before she left for college. Her mother and I used to tease her that it weighed more than she did because of the number of books she dragged around.”

      “How did it get to your house?” Casey asked at once. “Did Jan leave it here on her last trip home, or was it returned to you after she disappeared?”

      “The latter.” He swallowed. “Columbia returned it to us when they cleaned out her dorm room.” He gestured at the book bag. “Feel free to look inside. Lord only knows that I have, dozens of times. Textbooks, notebooks and her calendar are all you’ll find. I searched every nook and cranny.”

      “A calendar?” Casey jumped on that one. “You didn’t mention that in our last conversation. And it wasn’t in the material you brought me.”

      Olson sighed. “Like I said, I pored over it time after time. There’s nothing in there but assignments that were due. No names, no specific dates, nothing. I saw no purpose in bringing it. If you feel otherwise, if you think I might have missed something, it’s yours to review.”

      Casey nodded. She was watching Claire as she unzipped the book bag and searched the contents. She recognized the expression on Claire’s face. And it didn’t mean anything good.

      “We’ll take it with us,” Casey responded. “Plus whatever else Claire zeroes in on.”

      Claire raised her head. “Do you have any other items that were returned to you by the university?” she asked.

      “Jan’s clothes. Her books. Anything she left at the school.” Mr. Olson spoke painfully. “I’m not a material person. When Jan didn’t come home for a year, I donated most of her clothes to our church, thinking she could buy new ones when she returned. But if you’re looking for whatever’s left of her wardrobe, it would be hanging in her closet.” He pointed to the double sliding pocket doors.

      Claire opened them and studied a few articles of clothing, reaching for an occasional sleeve or collar. After a time, and in a deliberate manner, she squatted, picking up a pair of well-worn running shoes. “She wore these a lot. And not just to get around campus. She was an athletic girl.”

      “Yes,” Mr. Olson said. “She played on several teams in high school. I’m not sure how many of them she continued on with at Columbia. Her workload was steep. But, yes, she wore those running shoes constantly. They were too beaten up to donate to charity.”

      “I see,” Claire murmured. And she was clearly seeing a lot more than just the objects themselves. She didn’t comment aloud, just turned the running shoes over in her hands and studied the soles. Then she glanced back at the book bag. Her fingertips skimmed Jan’s belongings in a tentative, searching manner. Finally, she stopped. Still clutching the running shoes and book bag, she rose. “May I take these with me?”

      “Of