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think.”
    I drove to the edge of the lot, waiting for an opening in traffic so we could pull out.
    “Joe?”
    I looked over at her.
    She laid her hand on my arm. “I believe you. And I don’t think your nuts.”

SEVEN
     
     
    There were four Thompsons and two Thompkins listed for Castle Rock, Colorado.
    As I drove south, Lauren worked on her phone, searching names and tapping into several databases that she had access to through her law firm. Twenty minutes later, just as we hit C-470 and headed east, she had six names and the addresses and was mapping them out.
    C-470 was a wide open highway that cut through several cookie-cutter suburbs filled with big-box homes sitting amidst gently rolling hills. A massive shopping mall that looked very similar to a ski lodge rose up on our right, its lots nearing capacity with morning shoppers. We made the interchange to Interstate 25 and went south. The highway rose up and then descended slowly into a mammoth valley of pines and plains. The foothills of the Rockies were visible out to the west, beyond the scores of homes that looked like LEGOS in the distance. The road cut through the massive pines and Lauren gave me the exit to take and we descended down into the valley of Castle Rock.
    The four Thompson homes were washouts. Two were elderly couples in tiny homes in what looked to be the older part of the town. Both seemed annoyed that we’d knocked on their door. Another was a young couple that had just gotten married and moved to Castle Rock. They were sympathetic, but offered no help. And the last was actually a doctor’s office at the end of Main Street, a pediatric practice where Dr. Andrew Thompson was the practitioner. I’d gone in to talk to him, only to learn that he was divorced, childless and lived in another suburb to the south.
    Two fruitless hours of looking and we were left with the Thompkins addresses.
    We drove back over the highway and headed out into the valley of LEGOS. The first address was a sprawling home in a subdivision named Soaring Eagle Estates, homes perched on a hill with panoramic views of the Rockies. A small putting green snaked next to the long driveway, the home a rambling, newer structure that ran the length of the double-sized lot. Snow had melted in patches in the front yard, revealing a perfectly manicured, albeit dormant, front lawn.
    Unfortunately, no one answered the door.
    I’d walked around the back of the home, down a long slope, to find a covered in-ground pool, a patio the size of a small country, and a deck nearly the same size. The sliding doors both on the deck and below were covered by hanging blinds and I couldn’t see much inside, except that no one seemed to be home.
    I walked back to the front and climbed back into the car. “No one.”
    Lauren sighed, her frustration and impatience showing. “Great.”
    “We’ll check the other one,” I said. “Then come back if we need to and wait until someone shows up.”
    She didn’t say anything, just played with a loose strand of hair.
    The last Thompkins’ house on our list was about four minutes away, in a smaller subdivision that I missed the name of. A two-story house with light-green siding and a long front porch nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac. Two bikes lay on their sides in the half-melted snow on the lawn and the garage door was open, showing off a minivan and a Toyota Camry.
    At least someone was home.
    Lauren got out with me and she was first to the door. She pushed the doorbell and then, before anyone could answer, rapped on the door.
    Footsteps padded down the hall and the door opened. A friendly-looking woman about our age smiled at us. “Hello.”
    Lauren deferred to me. I took a deep breath. Our daughter could be there. Somewhere inside that house.
    “My name is Joe Tyler,” I said. “This is Lauren. We’re trying to locate a girl named Morgan Thompkins. Does she by any chance live here?”
    Her smiled stayed, but she shook her head. “Afraid not.