“Just take your time,” he says. “There’s no rush.”
That’s a lie. But I understand why he says it.
A minute later, five men step into place on the other side of the glass.
They stand in a line with numbers clipped to their shirts.
I study them carefully. Not the way you look at people. The way you look at suspects. At possibilities.
One looks irritated. One looks nervous. One looks bored. One looks tired. One looks… normal.
None of them feels familiar.
That doesn’t stop my heart from pounding.
I go down the line once.
Then again.
A part of me wants one of them to be the one.
Because at least then the nightmare would have edges. A shape. A beginning and an end.
“Do you recognize anyone?” Barnett asks.
The words won’t come.
I want them to.
But I can’t force something that isn’t there.
“No,” I say finally. “I don’t recognize any of them.”
The words feel heavy.
Barnett ends the lineup.
The men are led away.
He takes me into another office.
Barnett opens a file and slides a photo across the table.
It’s one of the men from the lineup.
“This is the one we’ve been looking at,” he says. “He’s got a history of violence. Assault. Domestic abuse. Escalation.”
“And he was there,” I say.
“Yes,” he replies. “We confirmed it. He was working on-site that day.”
That day.
The words sit in my chest like something cold.
“We don’t have enough yet,” Barnett adds, “but we’re in the process of trying to get a warrant to search his residence.”
I stare at the photo.
