Chapter 58
The kid’s room was even smaller. It had no dresser, but there was a closet, which was empty. I’d seen the backpack at the corner of Mr. Wallace’s desk, and while it was large, it wasn’t large enough to hold an entire wardrobe. Either the woman believed in traveling light, or whoever had killed her had taken the kid’s clothes.
The question was: why? Were they so sure they’d get their hands on him?
Not fucking likely. I’d seen what he’d drawn so effortlessly when I’d met him in McDonald’s almost three years before—he’d only been about eight at the time, too young even by WBIS standards—and there was no way I’d let any rival agency get their grubby mitts on him.