The 8th Circle by Sarah Cain Page B

today.”
    *
    Novell swallowed a cup of black coffee and refilled it. It tasted like hell, but at least it was real coffee. He eyed the young blonde sitting in the metal chair, swinging her right leg over her left. Sean entered with a soda and handed it to her with a smile, which she returned.
    “So, Ashley, you worked as a nanny for the Ryans for a year?” Sean asked.
    “I did. I couldn’t believe it when I heard about the accident. Conor was such a sweet little guy. He was just like his dad. So adorable.”
    Novell filed the information away. Maybe Beth Ryan didn’t like the nanny gushing over her husband and son.
    Sean leaned in. “I’m sure it was a great place to work. Would you say they were a happy couple?”
    “Oh my God, yes. I mean I wasn’t there all the time, but they seemed happy. I think Mrs. Ryan sometimes got upset because Conor would miss his French lessons, so I started working with him. Like I’d go with him and his dad to the park and all and go over French.”
    “And Mrs. Ryan didn’t mind?”
    “No. She was fine. One time someone thought I was Conor’s mom. Can you imagine? And then Conor started kindergarten not long after, and Mrs. Ryan let me go.”
    Novell looked at Sean. Had Ryan cheated on his wife? Did it matter?
    Sean said, “Did you know Michael Cohen?”
    She frowned. “The creepy fat guy? Yeah, he used to come over. Mrs. Ryan didn’t like him. She told me to keep Conor away from him. Even Mr. Ryan agreed with that, and he was always so laid back.”
    “So she was afraid Michael Cohen would hurt Conor?”
    Ashley took a sip of soda and considered. “I don’t know what she thought exactly except that he was creepy. Real creepy. If a kid went missing where he lived, he’d be the first person I’d suspect.”
    *
    Danny had gotten a later start than he planned, and it had been frustrating. He was still trying to trace the owner of the house in Gladwyne but had only a name: John Smith, whom he had traced to a holding company and then nowhere. One holding company led to another and another until his eyes were burning.
    When he pulled into his driveway, Beowulf wasn’t barking. Odd. He walked straight to the back door. Unlocked. The kitchen in disarray.
    The drawers and cupboards gaped open, their contents strewn on the floor. Danny stepped over the mess. Every room downstairs was ransacked, but he ignored the shattered crystal and broken china, opening doors and trying to subdue his growing panic.
    “Wolf?”
    He didn’t care about the mess. Where the hell was Beowulf? He ran back to the kitchen. Danny opened the door and stared into the growing darkness. His breath blew out in cloudy puffs, and he found himself making childish bargains with a God he knew wasn’t listening. Please let him be all right. I’ll go back to church. I’ll do goddamn anything. Don’t take him too .
    Then he noticed the footprints. Dark against the gravel driveway, they led to the garage.
    “Wolf!” Danny tried to force air into his lungs, but they wouldn’t expand.
    If he didn’t move, everything would be all right. He knew that.
    Never open that one door. It’s always the thing you fear: the state cop with his kind eyes, the blue-and-red lights reflecting against the falling snow. “Mr. Daniel Ryan? There’s been an accident.”
    He found himself walking to the garage and pulling the door open. In the dim light, he could see boxes pulled from shelves, his old college yearbooks scattered amid the tools and odd bits of Christmas decorations. Beowulf lay in the middle of the floor, still as if he were asleep, but a pool of blood encircled his shattered head.
    *
    Cops swarmed through his house, taking pictures of the destruction, pawing through the downstairs, upstairs, his bedroom, and Conor’s room. They questioned Danny about his substantial cache of prescription drugs, each bottle untouched. They made him account for his time over and over, like maybe he’d trashed his own house