"Where is she?" Clay demanded. It was the first time his voice had lost its smooth, conversational rhythm. Grim looked directly at him. "Somewhere she chose to be," he said. "You're not going to get her location from me."
The two men in the truck shifted in their seats. One glanced toward the side street, then at the main road, where another vehicle had slowed. Clay noticed the movement and seemed to understand that he no longer had the audience he had planned. "You think you're protected because you gave somebody a drive?" he asked. "A man wearing that patch ought to know better than to trust federal agents."
"Trust isn't the word," Grim replied. "They have a responsibility and the tools to investigate what you've done. I'm giving them the chance to use both."
Clay took a step closer. Grim did not retreat, but neither did he square himself for a fight. He thought of Millie standing behind a counter with her father's shotgun, of Rosie asking for four pancakes, of Ethan trying to check a stranger's windows. None of those images needed more violence added to them.
"You could make this easy on yourself," Clay said quietly. "Give me the boy who took the records. Tell me where Sarah is. We can go back to things being the way they were."
Grim almost laughed at the proposition. The way they were had included a mother hiding her children at four in the morning, a deputy parking outside a trailer, and a list of missing women whose families had spent years being told to stop asking questions. He looked at Clay and felt the answer settle with unusual clarity.
"No," he said. Clay stared at him, waiting for an explanation that would offer a weakness to press. Grim gave none. It was the first time that morning he had felt completely still inside himself, not because he was fearless, but because there was nothing useful left to negotiate.
A siren sounded in the distance. It was not close at first, merely a shifting note beyond the rooftops, but it made both men glance toward the road. Clay turned to his companions. The driver in the passenger seat pushed open the door and looked toward the intersection, then closed it again, uncertain what to do. Grim did not claim the police were moments away because he did not know their timing. He only knew that Keene had heard the location and that someone was coming.
"We can leave," one of Clay's men called. Clay turned on him. "Shut up." The words had the old force of habit but no longer the old effect. The man glanced at the other passenger, and both seemed to reach the same conclusion. They got out of the truck and moved toward the sidewalk, keeping distance between themselves and Clay.