Gone — Gone Baby

"If we call it in, he'll bolt," Patrick said, his professional instinct overriding his grief. "And if we wait, she's gone," Angie replied.

He drove. He told himself he was going to tell her to go home, to let the police handle it, to stop being a ghost hunter. But when he pulled up to the curb, he saw Angie standing under a rusted oak tree, her coat collar turned up against the wind. She didn't look at him; she looked at a black SUV idling near the swing sets. Gone Baby Gone

"She has the same look, Patrick," Angie’s voice cracked. "That same 'look' we saw in the photos of the ones who don't come back. Please. Just come look." "If we call it in, he'll bolt," Patrick

The neon sign of the Tip Top Tap flickered in the persistent drizzle of South Boston, casting a rhythmic red glow over Patrick’s tired face. He leaned against his battered Jeep, the damp salt air of the Atlantic stinging his eyes. It had been six months since the Helene McCready case had torn the neighborhood—and his life—apart. He told himself he was going to tell

Patrick didn't think. He didn't reach for a badge he didn't have or a gun he shouldn't carry. He just ran.

The man in the SUV opened his door. He didn't rush. He walked with the practiced ease of someone who belonged there. He moved toward the sandbox. The mother was laughing at something on her screen, her back turned.

He tackled the man three feet from the yellow raincoat. They hit the sand hard. The mother screamed. The man fought like a cornered animal, his eyes wide and vacant.