“We didn’t see anything, but we’ve always been wary of that man across the street.” Mrs Anderson said. She gestured to a dumpy, single story bungalow.

“He used to peak from the curtails at the children. He once said something very off kilter to our daughter on her walk home. Well, that was before she passed.”

“Thank you Mrs. Anderson,” said Detective Jimenez. He closed the door to the elderly couple’s home, cutting off the scent of freshly baked cookies.

It’s about damn time we got something, he thought, even if it is the well-meaning paranoia of a senior citizen. Their unit had been reduced door-to-door salesmen, asking desperate, prying questions in the hopes of a lead. Jimenez felt he might as well pop his head through the door and say: Hello, did you know your Tracy Hines warrantee expires in six months? Do you have time to talk about lord and savior Tracy Hines? She’s a missing 12 year old!

She had been gone for a four days, lost somewhere along the walk from the school to her home. There were no leads, no witnesses, no CCTV. She was not missing. There is missing, then there is vanished. Tracy had vanished.

The house the pointed out by Mrs. Anderson sat back from the street in weed-strangled lawn. It certainly looked unsavory. Grime caked the siding, the driveway, the windows. Leafy rot oozed from the gutters. Jimenez pulled deep into his lungs: faint marijuana smoke, piss, booze. The curtains in the windows were shut snuggly save a sliver; one big enough for a pair of no-good eyes to watch Tracy Hines. Worth a shot, he thought.

Jimenez made a call. His hopeful ears received the news that the man fingered by the Anderson lady was a registered “you know what.” A bad one too, judging by the rap sheet. Jimenez got that feeling like the stars were starting to align; a break in the clouds. They always told him he always had a good nose.

The team waited until the kid diddler lit a joint in his car before arresting the him on drug charges. He was thirty but aged and unkempt. Handcuffs cranked around his wrists. Jimenez all but splatted the monster on the side of the police car. From his worn coat pocket they pulled a camera. Images of children comprised most of the roll; the bad kind. It would be enough for a warrant to search the house.

The Andersons watched from the window, as the cops raided Bobby’s house.

“I do hope they find what they need.” Mrs. Anderson remarked. Her husband gave a solemn nod.

The oven timer went off.

She pulled out a sheet of cookies. Together they walked to the basement door, unlocked the deadbolt, and descended into the dim light.

“Our Samantha loved oatmeal cookies the best. She even like them while on the chemo, right up until the end. You’ll have to learn to love them too.” said Mrs. Anderson.

“I am so delighted,” said, turning to her husband.

“We found a new daughter.”