Peter tried a smile, but it wasn’t returned. The woman with the thick Jersey accent standing behind the counter at Child Protective Services in Newark instructed him to take a seat in the waiting room. She might have added, but didn’t, that since he had chosen to come in without an appointment he was royally screwing up her day. In a tight voice, she told him she couldn’t promise anything, but that she’d see if her supervisor could squeeze him in.

Peter took the chair next to the door. There were at least thirty other people in the room, some with children, some trying to ignore the din by reading a magazine, others looking bored, anxious, confused, or a combination of all three.

By the time Peter was finally allowed in to see someone, the room had all but cleared out. It was going on five-thirty. He ran a quick hand over his hair, wished he had some gum. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He’d stopped at a gas station after leaving Cabot’s place and searched the yellow pages for the address he wanted in Newark. He was still hoping he wouldn’t have to spend the night.

“How can I help you, Mr. . . . Johnson?” The woman looked down at a yellow Post-it note, then removed her glasses and stared up at him. She had iodine-colored skin, a slippery spray of black bangs, and kind eyes.

He explained what he knew about Margaret, said she’d been dropped off somewhere in Jersey City on February 17th—eight years ago.

“And you have no name, just a description.”

“That’s right.”

“You have to understand, Mr. Johnson, that even if I could help you, I simply don’t have the time.” She nodded to the foot-high stack of files on her desk. “The system is already severely overloaded. Every one of these cases needs my immediate attention. There aren’t enough hours in the day to take care of all the kids—or parents—who are in trouble and need help. If I were to stop, spend all my efforts looking for your wife’s little girl, what would happen to all these people?”

“Don’t you have someone on your staff who might be less busy?”

“Everyone here is as backed up as I am.”

“But-—” His eyes locked on hers. “I mean, isn’t there any way I could do the searching myself? Don’t you have records I could look through?”

“All our records are confidential. I’d like to help you, but it’s just not possible.”

“The fact that she was learning disabled, doesn’t that make her case stand out, even a little?”

She gave a mirthless laugh, shook her head. “Not in the slightest.”

“So there’s nothing I can do to find her.”

She gazed across the desk at him with sad eyes. “I’m afraid not. I’m truly sorry.”

“I don’t accept that,” said Peter, shooting to his feet.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t either.” She stood and extended her hand. “Good luck, Mr. Johnson. I wish you only the best.”