“You are a Whitmore,” he said, his hand gripping the cold iron bar of the gate.

“No matter how many times you change your name on a mailbox.

Your mother is sick with worry.

She has not slept since Thursday.”

“She should be worried about Elise Porter,” I said.

Arthur adjusted his glasses again, his fingers tapping against the metal frame.

“We don’t know what happened to that girl.

Caleb is a good boy.