It was seven-ten, the kids back in the middle of Granite Street, bikes swerving, skateboards clattering. Brandon parked in the driveway of 317 and he and Kat got out, started for the side door. Outside Cawley’s window they heard the bedspring squeak, a woman say, “Oh, baby.”

“Gonna be glad to see us,” Kat said.

Brandon knocked, first his fist, then the flashlight. After a minute they heard a door open inside, footsteps. The door cracked. Cawley peered through.

“Yeah.”

“Need to talk to you,” Brandon said.

“Kinda tied up.”

“Important.”

“Yeah, well.”

“This or a warrant,” Brandon said.

Cawley stared. Waited a three-count.

“With a warrant we search every inch of the place,” Brandon said. “Without it, we just talk.”

Cawley looked at Kat, back to Brandon. “Learning fast, ain’tcha, kid?” he said.

“Your call,” Brandon said.

A long stare, and then Cawley turned away. “I’ll tell her to get dressed,” he said.

They leaned in the kitchen, the blonde woman, Tiffany, back in her shorts and tank top, hair disheveled, smelling of sweat and sex. She sipped Diet Coke out of a can. Cawley, bare-chested and muscled, in gym shorts, took a long pull on a Budweiser longneck. On his big shoulder was the grinning-skull tattoo, Brandon getting a better look now, seeing the knife through the eye socket.

“Muslim chick never talked to me. Acted like I’d rip her robe thing off. I mean, you say hello and they freak out, these Somalians.”

“Sudanese,” Brandons said.

“What?”

“The Ottos are from Sudan.”

“What is this? Fucking geography class?” Cawley said.

“Okay,” Kat said. “Let’s stay on track. You saw her early this morning?”

“Yeah. Out in the driveway, her outfit on, the head thing. Looked like some kinda witch, standing there.”

“Just standing there?” Brandon said.

“Yeah.”

“Like she was waiting for someone?” Kat said.

“No,” Cawley said. “More like a dog, sniffing the air.”

“Sniffing?” Tiffany said. “What was she sniffing for?”

“I don’t know,” Cawley said. “She was just standing there, like listening.”

“To what?” Tiffany said.

“Jesus, babe, how the hell should I know?”

“This was around three o’clock?” Brandon said.

“About that. I don’t know. I got up to take a leak.”

“And then what?” Kat said.

“I went back to bed,” Cawley said.

“You hear a car pull up?” Brandon said.

“No.”

“You awake long?” Kat said.

“A while.”

He and Tiffany exchanged glances.

“You hear Fatima go back inside?”

“No.”

“You hear anything?” Brandon said.

“Her talking.”

“To who?” Kat said.

“I don’t know. Nobody talked back. Maybe just herself. These people, they’re different, you know?”

“What was she saying?” Kat said.

“I have no idea. It wasn’t in English.”

“And then what? Anything?” Brandon said.

“I heard her walking. She was just kinda shuffling. That’s what it sounded like.”

“Like walking away? Like—down the street?” Kat said.

“Down the driveway, past the window.”

“Toward the street,” Kat said.

“Yeah.”

“Did you hear her, Tiffany?” Brandon said.

“No. I was, uh, distracted.”

The glance again.

“And then?” Kat said.

“Then I didn’t hear her no more,” Cawley said.

They stood, the four of them, didn’t speak. Tiffany raised the Diet Coke and drank, then held it in two hands in front of her, like a goblet of wine.

“I bet I know who saw where she went,” she said.

They all looked at her.

“That old lady and her daughter. They don’t miss a thing. I came here the other day, she’s in the window, giving me the evil eye.”

“Which one?” Brandon said.

“Which eye?”

“No, which of the Youngs.”

“Oh,” Tiffany said. “The old one.”

“You think they’d be up at three in the morning?” Kat said.

“The old lady, she never sleeps,” Cawley said. “I get off the bike, look over, there she is.”

“Nosy old bag,” Tiffany said. “Always watching. Probably listening, too, the perv.”

“I thought she watched movies all the time,” Kat said.

“That’s the thing,” Tiffany said. She looked around, like Mrs. Young might be listening. “Sometimes you can hear the TV, see the light on. But she isn’t in there watching it. She’s in the other room, in the window, standing there in the dark, looking out.”

“Ever hear a movie with a baby crying?” Brandon said.

“No, I hear mostly talk shows. You know, like Judge Judy, Dr. Phil,” Tiffany said.

“But she’s in the window,” Kat said.

“Right,” Tiffany said. “Like the TV is a . . .” She searched for the word.

“A diversion?” Brandon said.

“Right,” she said. “You read my mind.”

Tiffany recrossed her legs. Jiggled her foot. She smiled, like the conversation was a game show and she’d just scored.

Kat looked at Cawley. “Fatima, in the driveway,” she said. “Ever seen her out there at that time before?”

Cawley shook his head. “Nope.”

“I been telling him, ‘You gotta move. This place has got the voodoo hex on it,’ ” Tiffany said.

Kat looked at Brandon.

Tiffany continued. “The missing baby. The dead junkie. Now this African girl. It’s like it’s working its way down, you know what I’m saying? Knocking us off, one by one.”