Free Measure of Darkness by Chris Jordan

you—I’m so sorry I fibbed—I never actually worked in the physics department and I never met Professor Keener personally. But before he died, before he got killed, Keener hired a friend of mine to help him find his missing five-year-old son. It was my friend—he’s a former FBI agent who specializes in child recovery—it was my friend who found the body, okay? And my friend who is now a suspect in the murder.”
    To my surprise, Toni Jo Nadeau grins at me. “This is a much better story, sugar,” she says, eyes bright with interest. “Some of it might even be true.”
    â€œPlease don’t tell the police. They’ll think I’m meddling.”
    â€œDescribe this ‘friend’ of yours and I’ll think about it.”
    â€œYou want to know what he looks like?”
    She shakes her head. “I know what he looks like. I want to know if you know what he looks like.”
    â€œYou know… Oh, I get it. You happened to notice when he visited Professor Keener, is that it?”
    â€œI’m waiting, sugar.”
    â€œOkay, what he looks like. Here goes. Well, for starters, he’s a hunk, big and lean and tall. Way over six foot—I mean, I barely come up to his shoulders, you know? Soulful eyes. And a cute little salt-and-pepper chin beard.”
    Mrs. Nadeau nods along with the description. “You had me at hunk, sugar. That’s our boy. I saw him ringing the bell over there last week and my first thought, I wish he was ringing the bell over here, you know what I mean? No offense, but your man is tasty .”
    As you may have noticed, I’m rarely at a loss for words, but that pretty much stops my tongue. Mrs. Nadeau notices my discomfort and reaches out to pat my hand. “Wispy little thing like you, I’m guessing he really is just a friend. Don’t look so worried, these things take time.”
    Wispy? I’m wearing what I call my librarian glasses, Target clothing and a cloth handbag, going for the non-threatening mousy look. But wispy? Really?
    â€œMan like that, he’d want a woman with some meat on her bones,” Mrs. Nadeau says. “Somebody with a little bounce in her jounce. But he may come around. You just hang in there.”
    When my power of speech finally resumes, I say,“Yesterday morning, when it happened, did you notice anything wrong?”
    Mrs. Nadeau explains that because of her allergies—she’s allergic to cats, why is that no surprise?—she takes an antihistamine before bed and sleeps, in her words, like a dead dodo bird. Therefore she has no awareness of what happened in the early hours, or who might have murdered Joseph Keener.
    â€œThe sirens woke me. That’s the first I knew something was wrong. The cops wouldn’t tell me what happened, but when I saw that body bag coming out I knew it was bad. The worst. The poor, poor man. I wonder who’ll get the house.”
    On my way out the narrow driveway, I stop to take a gander at the dead man’s backyard. And there, partially obscured by fallen leaves, is a child’s sandbox, covered with a plastic turtle lid. Looks like it hasn’t been used in a while, but that fits with what the cat lady said, and as far as I’m concerned proves beyond doubt that a child once played here.
    A little boy, missing.

Chapter Ten
Promises to Keep
    K idder loops the big brass padlock over his index finger and shows it to the woman he thinks of as New Mommy.
    â€œYou’ll be safe,” he says in his teasing, wheedling way. “It’s a finished basement with a kitchenette, full bath, a nice pool table and a big-screen TV. Plenty of room for the kid’s keyboard. It’s not like you’ll be locked up in a dungeon.”
    â€œThe basement is fine, but why do we have to be locked in?” she says. Seated on a divan, the little brat clinging to her side.
    â€œBecause your boyfriend said so, that’s