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woman scorned?” Zack asks dryly.
    “That was Beverly Hamilton,” says Biller. “She’s the station manager at WCSC, where Anderson works.”
    Taft sits down at one of the terminals and pulls up a file. “She’s his boss. We ran a routine background check on her last night. After that,” he jabs a thumb toward the wall, “I think I’ll dig a little deeper.”
    Zack nods. “While we’re here, Emma and I will interview the Andersons again. Emma, you take the lead.”
    “Will do.”
    He turns to Biller. “As soon as you have an update on Hamilton—”
    “We’ll send it,” Biller says.
    Sophie Anderson sits on the pale blue sofa in the living room, her husband by her side. I can’t help but wonder if she’s aware of her husband’s infidelity. If I hadn’t heard the admission from his very own lips, I wouldn’t have suspected. There was nothing in any of the reports to indicate the Andersons were experiencing marital strife. But then, Brett Anderson is more than a meteorologist. He’s a television personality, a showman, and actor. And he looks just as you’d imagine a television personality would. He’s tall, lean, chisel-faced, and well-coifed.
    Mrs. Anderson is also thin, physically fit. Her blonde hair is pulled back from a tear-stained face by a plain rubber band. She hasn’t bothered with makeup or jewelry. Her simple white cotton blouse and jeans are a stark contrast to her husband’s buttoned-up suit and tie. In general she seems more down to earth. Pretty but plain in a wholesome, homespun way.
    Abigail enters with tray containing a tea service. Wordlessly, she sets it on the coffee table.
    “Let me pour you some tea,” Mr. Anderson says to his wife.
    Mrs. Anderson shakes her head. Her bright blue eyes are brimming with tears. She uses the wadded-up tissue she’s been holding to once again wipe her nose. “This is all my fault.”
    “It’s not.” Brett reaches for his wife’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “We’re going to get Coop back.” The determination in his voice almost makes me a believer. Then he turns his gaze on me, and I see the need for reassurance in his eyes.
    I wish I had some to give him.
    Instead, I plunge ahead. “I know it’s been less than twenty-four hours since you were interviewed,” I tell them. “And I’m sorry to make you go through these details again, Mrs. Anderson, but we need to cover every base.”
    She nods.
    “When did you notice Cooper was missing?”
    She sits up a little straighter, squares her shoulders. “It was a few minutes before noon. I’d just left him alone to shower. We do it every day. He wasn’t out of my sight for more than fifteen minutes.” Sophie turns to face her husband. “Not more than fifteen minutes.”
    “You said you do it every day,” I say. “What do you do every day?”
    “Every Monday through Friday, I go to a gym over on Wentworth. When we come home Coop has movie time while I shower and prepare lunch.”
    I remember passing a gym on Wentworth this morning—Modern Fitness. “While you’re at the gym, where is Cooper?”
    “They have a day care center. Members sign their kids in and out. They have toys, art supplies, a playground.” The tears start to flow again. “He loves it there.”
    “Do you routinely stop anywhere on the way to the gym? Maybe on the way home?” I ask.
    “No. Not normally. Not yesterday.”
    “What time did you sign Cooper out?”
    “I work with a personal trainer from ten thirty to eleven twenty. I signed him out right after that. We drove home, he picked out a movie.”
    Her breath catches. “When I came down from showering, he was gone.”
    I ask her to tell us what the rest of a normal day would entail.
    It quickly becomes clear as Mrs. Anderson outlines her routine that she is a creature of habit. Her afternoons are as predictable as her mornings. She and Cooper walk to the park. When they return, Cooper naps and Sophie spends time reading or going through the mail. At