fter Mackie had acquired the boys’ driver’s licenses, it occurred to him to do the same for the girls. Holding all six in one hand, he retreated to the nearest computer station and ran all of them through the system.

Sawyer Ann Taft, Lillian Taft Easterling, Campbell Caroline Ames, Sadie-Grace Waters. None of the girls’ names returned any hits. A little poking around online, however, revealed that what Nick Ryan had said earlier was entirely correct: The quartet in the holding cell was a perfect storm of social connections. Senator ­Sterling Ames. Oil magnate Charles Waters. Mackie stopped himself right there. He didn’t need a search engine to tell him that Lillian Taft was, among other things, the Magnolia County Police Department’s single largest donor.

Glumly, Mackie turned his attention to the boys’ IDs. Nick Ryan returned multiple hits in the system—the juvie records were sealed, but the more recent one gave Mackie plenty to chew on.

“Fifty-thousand-dollar pearls,” he murmured. His heart ticked up a beat. The girls mentioned pearls. He ran the last ID.

Walker Ames.

Mackie stared at the screen. A record had popped up, but every line in it—every single one, other than the name—was blank.