Page 384 of A Matter of Time

“Why?”

“The more growly he gets, the better he’s feeling.”

“If you say so.”

“You’re placating me.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, smiling. “Hey, how old are you now?”

“Twenty-six, why?”

He made a noise. “And how old is Sam?”

“He’s thirty-seven.”

“Do you worry about that age gap between you and Sam?”

“No. I figure I’m actually older than he is—I’m more mature.”

“Yeah, running around in dark houses in the middle of the night is really mature.”

“Bite me.”

He laughed, and I concentrated on the road.

“You know, Dane brought up my age just the other day as well. He made some snide remark about my frontal cortex not being developed yet.”

“Well, with all this, one does wonder.”

“We’re done speaking.”

He grunted. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

I could only imagine what we looked like—me in my hoodie and peacoat, Caleb in his trench coat and scarf, both of us wearing sunglasses to block out the afternoon light. Still, we must have come off as nonthreatening, because as we went door to door, people still talked to us. Caleb said it was because I was so cute, and I countered with the fact that he looked like the boy next door, with his “aw-shucks, ma’am” smile and his Texas accent coming through. I had never really looked at Caleb closely before, but the light brown hair and dark blue eyes were very appealing, and the cleft in his chin and the laugh lines made his face interesting.

Whatever the reason, people talked to us, and we found out that Greg’s mother’s name was Joyce, and she had moved, Mrs. Ogden thought, to Schaumburg. Mrs. Ogden had lived on the corner for over thirty years and was almost positive that was what she had been told. The snickerdoodles she gave us were very good, straight from the oven. She went on to say that there had never been a Mr. Fain, only Joyce and her son. Once Greg had been old enough to live alone, Joyce had left the house, and Greg had been there by himself ever since.

We drove to an Internet café and pulled up every Joyce Fain, J. Fain, and plain old Fain in Chicago and Schaumburg. There were more than I would have liked, but as I drove, Caleb made calls, and I realized how great it was to have a partner in crime. Just one more person working on the same thing as me was a great big help.

“Oh-oh-oh,” Caleb said excitedly, and held out his phone after turning it from handset to loudspeaker for me. “Listen, listen.”

The answering machine was clear. The woman’s voice quavered just a little as she announced that the caller had reached Joyce with Our Sisters of Saint Andrew’s prayer line. We were to leave a prayer request or message and Sister Joyce would return our call.

“That’s gotta be her,” Caleb assured me. “Right?”

I didn’t remember seeing any crosses or religious items in the house, but it had been dark, so maybe I had missed them. Or maybe when his mom moved out, Greg had sent all her religious pieces with her. Maybe Mom was devout but not the son. “We might as well check it out, but keep calling the others too.”

He agreed and stayed on his cell as I drove.

“Why do you think Joyce left her son?”

“Jory, I know the Fains as well as you do,” he said with a chuckle. “The inner workings of the family life of one of the men who kidnapped us are a mystery to me.”

“Sure. I was just thinking out loud.”

“Why don’t you ask his mother when you meet her?”

“I don’t wanna pry.”