Chairs scraped. Wallets came out. Cash piled onto the Formica. The bell shrieked again and then—silence.

I hurried to the booth. Under the tip was the folded square. But it wasn’t the photo. It was a napkin—covered in scrawled notes:

• “Sheriff Miller — no help (‘ran away’).” 
• “State Police — ‘wait 48 hrs’.” 
• “Frankie’s garage — alibi holds.” 

These weren’t the notes of kidnappers. They were the notes of people searching. And at the bottom, circled three times, one name: Richard Henderson.