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Mercer gets into his car.

I wait.

Then move.

By early afternoon, I have the beginning of Mercer’s routine.

Rental. Diner. Gas station, where he buys water and talks to the cashier.

Nothing useful.

At least, that's what it looks like.

But I don't believe in coincidence. Not with men like Mercer. He isn't here for Vermont scenery. He's looking for someone.

Which means every conversation matters. Every stop matters. Every person he speaks to matters.

I need to figure out which one matters most.

Mercer heads to a small hardware store. He spends eleven minutes inside and comes out carrying a small paper bag.

Nothing useful.

Frustration wells inside me.

My phone buzzes.

I ignore it.

Then it buzzes again.

And again.

“For fuck's sake.”

I pick it up.

Chaos: I have a dilemma.

Chaos: How do you feel about dogs wearing sweaters?

I stare at the screen.

Another message arrives.

It's a picture of Alibi.

He's sitting on Callie's couch wearing a black sweater with tiny orange pumpkins on it. His one floppy ear hangs sideways. He looks miserable.

I know exactly who he is.

But she doesn't know that.

So I play dumb.

Me: You have a dog?

The three dots appear immediately.