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More often than not, in times of true trouble, especially when related to a child, couples found themselves battling each other in grief. Presumably because hurting each other and hurling blame was more comfortable to focus on than the pain.

“God, no. I’m not FBI,” I answered after forcing down a sip of the coffee. Which was as terrible as I’d expected.

“She’s a … consultant,” Dante offered, sipping his own coffee without so much as a wince. “Excellent at what she does.”

“The best in the country,” I agreed with a smile. We were in the company of two panicked parents, and yes, I was petty enough to make a comment like that.

Dante, it turned out, wasn’t. Because he didn’t even take the bait. Didn’t even look at me. His attention was wholly on the parents.

“Now, I know you’ve been asked these questions before, but if you’ll humor me, I need you to tell me all the details of the day and night before Jackson went missing.”

The parents proceeded to give us details of the day, a mundane one in the suburbs—breakfast, school drop off, and pick up. Playing with neighborhood kids. Dinner. Movie. Shower. Bed.

“And you didn’t have any calls from the school or parents, anything about Jackson’s behavior?” Dante prodded gently.

The father shook his head.

“No.” The mother’s reply was tight, hands wrapped around her mug.

“And there was no fight over eating dinner, vegetables?” Dante probed.

You could see the confusion on their faces, but still, they answered no.

“Bedtime battles?”

“Well, Jackson did want to stay up to watch Gremlins.” The father ran a hand along his chin. “He wasn’t happy when I told him it was too late.”

“Great movie,” I muttered.

Dante gave me a quick nod, eyes briefly meeting mine. That minor of a rebellion—talking back to an authority figure, again, natural kid behavior—was enough for a Black Annis to deem it a target. If the creature was nearby.

Though it did tell me her nest couldn’t have been far. Jackson was her first victim. If she was just waking up, she’d be weak, looking for the closest form of prey. The neighborhood itself was on the outskirts of the industrial side of town. There were a couple of junkyards, a small grain factory, nothing too unseemly because the wrath of the town council would descend. The trailer park was likely bad enough in their eyes. But to keep their town flawlessly maintained, they needed the people they were paying barely a living wage.

“Can we see his room?” Dante motioned to the corridor.

Both parents stood, leading us down a narrow hallway, the walls decorated with more pictures that mapped out Jackson’s life from baby to toddler to child. A whole lifetime was on the walls. I didn’t let that bother me.

Or tried not to.

“Right in here.”

We stepped into a small, bright, clean room. There were movie posters on the walls, a bursting bookshelf, a small desk, and toys neatly put away into baskets. The bed was unmade. A small amount of clutter that was expected for an obviously interesting young boy, but it wasn’t messy or dirty.

“We left it like this.” His mother gestured to the bed. “In case they needed it for—” Her voice broke with a shallow sob. Her back straightened as she took a visible breath. “In case they needed evidence.”

“And forensics has been through here?” I asked, though it was hard to believe, since the place looked tidy, no dusting for fingerprints on any surfaces I could see.

The father nodded. “Left about an hour ago.”

Well, they did a shitty fucking job.

I was angry at small-town cops and small-town bullshit for obviously writing this boy off.

“Do you have any leads?” his mother asked. “Chief Hughes, Colton, said they didn’t have any, but if you’re the FBI, maybe you know something they don’t.”

“I know a thing or two they don’t.” Dante winked at her. “We don’t have anything concrete yet, but we offer a different skill set to ensure no stone is left unturned while searching for your son.”

Nicely done, Dante.