“Caleb has his truck,” Sloan said.

“We are watching his usual places, but he has not been home since Thursday morning.”

I touched the brass key in my pocket.

“He won’t come here.”

“Just keep the deadbolt turned,” Harris said.

The street below was quiet, the occasional car headlights sweeping across the opposite brick wall.

“Thank you,” I said.

I closed the heavy oak door and slid the brass deadbolt into place, the metal clicking home with a solid weight.