I knocked on Fiona’s door the following evening and this time was in luck. Fiona’s mother answered with a smile, seemingly happy to see me, and invited me inside.

“How are you holding up, Ms. Winter?” I asked as we strolled into the main living area, removing my backpack and setting it on the floor by the dining room table.

“The police are doing what they can to locate her,” she said. “So, all I can do is wait.”

“I still can’t believe she wouldn’t call or text or anything to let you know she’s alright. God, I hope she’s alright.”

“I trust in her ability to take care of herself,” she said, sounding almost dismissive. “It’s upsetting, but I probably should have been more upfront about her father—given her more information about who he was when she was younger—which may have prevented this from happening. But I guess you know what they say about hindsight.”

I nodded.

“So, as you can see, I have no new information to provide,” she said, picking up a filled glass of red wine from the kitchen counter, then moving over to one of the couches. “I’ll be sure to let you know when I do.”

“Do you have Facebook?” I hadn’t been able to find her profile, but it didn’t mean she didn’t have one.

“No,” she said indifferently. “I unplugged from the whole social media thing. It’s quite freeing.”

She wasn’t going to make this easy. “Well, then can I have your number, so I don’t have to keep bothering you?” I asked, following her toward the couch, but remaining on my feet.

“There’s a pad on the counter. You can write down your number and I’ll send you an update as soon as I receive some news,” she said and took a sip from her glass.

“Alexis would like to be kept in the loop too.”

“You can update her with what you receive, can’t you?”

I felt like she was trying to get rid of me. “Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry; I’m just worried about her.”

“As am I.” She took another sip from her wine glass, her gaze drifting toward the television even though the screen was off. “Was there more to why you came?”

“Umm… Yeah; there is,” I said and headed back to my backpack. I brought it over to the couch, unzipped the main pocket, and removed a manila folder. “Please take a look at these,” I said, handing her the folder.

Fiona’s mother set down her glass and opened the folder, finding the stack of photographs.

“I know you take good pictures,” she said, casually flipping through. “She’d practically wallpapered her room with them until recently.”

“Take a closer look at the background of all those pictures. They all contain the same guy—some clearer than others—but I’m confident they all contain him. Do you recognize him?”

“Should I?” she asked, going back to the start of the stack.

“According to him, you should.”

“I see.” She reached for a pair of reading glasses on the end table, put them on, and scrutinized the first picture again. “I’d say that looks a lot like Matthew Mercer,” she said after flipping through the stack again.

“Okay… so you do know him.”

“Not well, but yes.”

“He said you worked with his mother, so you all go way back,” I clarified.

“That’s true. His mother and I go back quite a few years, but the kids didn’t spend much time together.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling like the revelation I’d brought to her wasn’t having the impact I’d been anticipating. “But don’t you find it odd he’s in the background of all these pictures—like he’s stalking her?”

“He’s already been cleared,” Fiona’s mother said, closing the envelope of pictures. “The police questioned him yesterday. He didn’t run away with her if that’s what you’re afraid of. Don’t get me wrong, I do find it a little odd he’s in the background of some of these. But half of them are blurry, so I can’t really tell if that’s him or not. I feel you might be projecting since you identified him in the others. I can assure you, he’s harmless.”

And with that, I didn’t really know what else to say. Feeling a heaviness in my shoulders, I collected the manila folder and stuffed it back in my bag.

“Thank you for your concern and your effort to help, but the situation is in the hands of the authorities and they’re doing what they can to find her. The best thing we both can do is allow them to do their jobs.”

“Yeah… you’re right,” I said, weakly.

“And like I said, I’ll let you know when I hear something.”

“That reminds me, I’ll write my cell number on the pad—in the kitchen, you said?”

“On the counter. There should be a pen beside it.”

I threw the backpack over my shoulders and found the pad she was referring to. I wrote my number as legibly as possible, then wished her a good evening before showing myself out.

Something still seemed very wrong—with Matthew, and now with Fiona’s mother. I knew she was always a strong woman, but she seemed too calm. Her only living daughter had recently run away and she didn’t seem to be panicking at all. I couldn’t understand how that was possible unless she knew something she wasn’t telling me.

I replayed the conversation again as I sat in my car, at a vantage point from which I could still see Fiona’s apartment.

Did I really offer the information about how Matthew fitted into their family? I thought back and believed I had; all she had to do was confirm what I’d said. That sure was clumsy on my part. When she first saw Matthew in the pictures, she seemed hesitant about how to respond. Then I voluntarily gave her the direction. Boy, that was stupid.