“I want you to search for Jennifer,” I said.
Paul did not look at his computer screen. He looked at the brass letter opener on his blotter, his thumb tracing the dull edge of the metal.
“Jennifer left Oakhaven five years ago, Martha,” he said. “We closed her auto file when she sold the sedan, as you recall.”
“Check for any recent inquiries,” I said. “Maybe an address change. Or a request for a policy transfer from another county.”
“The state requires us to purge inactive files after three years,” Paul said, his eyes remaining on the letter opener. “It is standard procedure to protect client privacy.”
“Try anyway,” I said, my voice flat. “Please.”
Paul reached for his mouse, his index finger clicking twice to wake the monitor.
The screen threw a pale blue light across his face, highlighting the deep lines around his mouth. A small bead of sweat formed near his temple, just below the gray line of his sideburn, though the office radiator was barely clicking in the corner.
“There is nothing here under her social security number,” Paul said, his finger scrolling slowly through a blank spreadsheet. “Nothing active, at least.”
“What about inactive?” I asked.
“The screen is empty, Martha,” he said, turning the monitor slightly so I could see the blue search fields. “No inquiries. No correspondence.”
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, his eyes darting toward the window that looked out on the gray street.
He cleared his throat before speaking again. “We have to be very careful about the paperwork when a child is involved, Martha.”
I stood up, my purse strap heavy on my shoulder. “I did not mention a child, Paul.”
He froze for a second, his hand hovering over the keyboard. “You mentioned her. I assumed. It is a small town, and people talk.”
“Nobody knows she is back,” I said.
“Of course,” Paul said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Of course.”
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