"Mr. Tillery," Shuford said slowly. "When'd you say your father went missing?"
"Thursday. Thursday evening."
"And you didn't know where he was."
"Nobody knew where he was."
"Sir," Tuan said. "May I show the sergeant my phone? Not the recording. The texts."
He held it out. Shuford took it and looked. Claudine could see the screen past the sergeant's arm, the gray bubbles stacked one on another. Lawson Tillery, 1:15 PM: Is anyone on my father's boat right now? Yes or no. Lawson Tillery, 1:40 PM: I'll take that as a yes.
And above those, from Friday morning, a message Tuan had never mentioned to her at all: Lawson Tillery, 8:02 AM: Let me know when they start getting her ready to move. Don't say anything to anyone. L.
Shuford read it twice. He looked at Lawson. He looked at the draft notice in his other hand. Claudine watched him put it together, slowly, the way a man puts together a thing he does not want to be true because it means he is in it. A man who knew where his father was. A man who had been waiting for the boat to move. A man who had called a sergeant he'd once shared a boat with and described a woman taking a yacht without ever once saying her name. A notice drafted at midnight with a blank where the police report would go.
"You knew he was on the boat," Shuford said.
"I suspected he was on the boat. I didn't know—"
"You told me forty minutes ago nobody knew where he was. You told me he was in a care facility." Shuford's voice had not risen. If anything it had gone flatter. "You told me a woman was taking his boat. You didn't tell me it was her slip. You didn't tell me her name. You didn't tell me he walked out on his own two feet and signed the form. You didn't tell me you had paperwork drawn up to fine her for it."