“You’re bossy this morning.” She accepted the cup and pulled the lid off. The steam hit her face, and underneath the coffeesmell was cinnamon and ginger. She took a sip and couldn’t help but groan. “So much better than yesterday’s leftovers.”
A small smile pulled at the corner of Naomi’s mouth. “I don’t know how you drink that swill.”
“It’s called efficiency.”
“It’s called self-harm, and we should stage an intervention.”
“Hey, if intervention means you’ll bring me Nessie’s coffee every morning, I’m okay with that.”
Naomi pulled the folder toward her but didn’t open it. She sat with both hands flat on top of it, the way she did when she was buying time.
Greta’s stomach lurched. She set the coffee down. “Okay, Nomi, you’re starting to freak me out. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been sitting on something for six months,” she said after a beat. “I want you to hear me out before you react.”
Shit, this wasn’t going to be good. “I’m listening.”
Naomi took a breath before speaking again. “Last fall, when those traffickers took me, I got two girls out. Tariah and Angel.”
Greta nodded. “I remember.” After their rescue, Tariah and Angel were moved into a local shelter for abused women. She had planned to teach wilderness survival classes to the women there, but never got the chance because Haven House had burned down a few months ago.
“Before we escaped,” Naomi continued, “they told me about a woman named Ashley. Tariah said she was approached at the Spokane bus station. Angel said she was taken out for ice cream the day before she was loaded into a van. Both of them described the same woman. Late twenties or early thirties. Strawberry blonde.”
All the air seemed to leave the room. “You think it’s Alice.”
Naomi’s face tightened. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. The description fits a thousand women. I didn’t want to put it in your head without more proof.”
“But now you have more proof.” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, flat and distant.
Naomi nodded slowly. “You remember Corbin Brandt?”
“The US Marshal who helped Nessie hide from her ex?”
“Yes. I’ve been working with him to track down the players in the trafficking ring, and he pulled a still from a Spokane Greyhound terminal camera six weeks ago. It matches Tariah’s and Angel’s descriptions exactly.”
Her mouth went dry, and she reached for her coffee again, taking a long drink. It was too hot, but she welcomed the burn. In fact, she wanted it to burn more and wished for her flask.
But, no. She’d been trying to cut back since the engagement party, when Bear pointed out how much she’d been drinking. “Show me.”
Naomi hesitated, then reached into the folder and pulled out a printout. She set it on the table between them, but kept her fingers on one corner.
Greta stared at it.
The image was grainy, taken from a security camera at an awkward angle. A woman sat on a bench inside what looked like a bus terminal, her back three-quarters to the camera. Strawberry blonde hair fell past her shoulders. The build was lean, athletic. One hand rested on the bench beside a young girl, slim fingers topped with dagger-tipped nails.
Greta’s breath caught.
She couldn’t tell. She should just… know her twin, right? Like on an instinctive cellular level. But she couldn’t tell.
The woman could be Alice. The hair was the right color—that particular shade of strawberry blonde that went copper in the sun, same as hers. The build was right, or at least similar enough to hers to give her pause. The hand on the bench beside the girl could be Alice’s hand. The dramatic nail shape and color were something she’d pick for herself.
But she could also be a complete stranger.
The angle was wrong, the resolution too poor, the face turned just enough away from the camera to make certainty impossible.
“Is it her?” Naomi asked quietly.
“I want to say yes, but…” She shook her head and swallowed back the lump rising in her throat. “I don’t know.”
