Captured by S.J. Harper

good news,” Brett says.
    I let Zack talk to them while I go into the library to check in with Taft and Biller.
    The two agents look none the worse for wear. Biller is sipping a cup of coffee and munching on one of Abigail’s pecan rolls. Taft appears to have come fresh from the shower. I can smell the soap and aftershave. The demeanor of both is alert and professional when they greet me.
    “Our reports are on the desk,” the mammoth Taft says, shouldering into a suit coat that looks like it could double as a tent. “Wish I could say we had something for you, but it’s been a bust. The lists you had the Andersons prepare yesterday have a few names in common, but no one we haven’t already run background on.”
    I pick up the stack of reports. “Zack and I have fared no better, I’m afraid.”
    Biller sighs. “Time isn’t on our side.”
    The monumental understatement is met with silence.
    I flip through their reports. There are scores of profiles—neighbors, co-workers, family members, and friends. There are two registered sex offenders within a one-mile radius. They were both at work when Cooper was taken.
    “We’ll be coming up on seventy-two hours soon.” This comes from Taft.
    The chances of a ransom call coming in diminish with each passing minute. “If we don’t get a break soon, we’ll re-evaluate keeping the two of you here. For now, let’s stay put. I’m going to sit in while Zack questions the Andersons again.”
    I tuck the reports into my bag, then head out to the living room. Zack is listening intently as Sophie Anderson recounts the morning of Cooper’s disappearance once again. I slip quietly into a nearby chair.
    Her voice is heavy with resignation as she repeats the details of her routine—getting Cooper ready to go with her to the gym, traveling to the gym, working out, coming home, picking a movie for Cooper to watch while she went upstairs to shower.
    While we’re talking, Abigail comes to the door. She knocks and peeks in. “Looks like Mr. Parsons is back from vacation. We’re getting the mail first thing in the morning again instead of noontime. Would you like it now or shall I leave it on Mr. Anderson’s desk?”
    Mrs. Anderson rises to take a clutch of envelopes from Abigail’s hands. “I’ll take it.”
    I glance at Zack, wondering if he is picking up on the same thing I am. Substitute mailman. Didn’t the day care workers at Andy’s school say there had been a substitute mailman the week he disappeared, too?
    “Mrs. Anderson, when did the mail arrive on Monday?” I ask.
    She tilts her head as if trying to remember. “Well, it wasn’t here in the morning. I know that much. It might have come in the afternoon. I don’t remember ever checking.”
    She probably wouldn’t have, not with her child missing.
    “Abigail?” I ask.
    “I checked the box like I usually do on Tuesday. The week before it wasn’t coming until lunchtime. Monday’s my day off. Come Tuesday, I couldn’t remember if Mr. Parsons had told me he was going to be in Jamaica for one week or two. He still has family down there.” She looks from me to Zack. “This is important?”
    “It could be,” answers Zack.
    It’s a long shot. The school is in a different neighborhood and on any given day, there must be dozens of substitute mailmen working in a city the size of Charleston. But this could be the break we’ve been waiting for, hoping for—a thread that will connect our cases. I hold my breath and wait for Abigail to continue.
    “There wasn’t anything in the box. Nothing left over from Monday and nothing from the morning. It came later, just like it did yesterday.”
    Zack pulls out his notebook. “Do either of you remember what this substitute mailman looked like?” Mrs. Anderson shakes her head. “I never saw him. The mail always seemed to come while Coop and I were having lunch or while—” Her eyes widen and fill with tears. Her hand clutches at her heart. “While I was in the