I slam the laptop shut and push it away from me at the same time Captain Barrett exits his office with a look on his face that suggests he knows exactly what I’ve been doing all morning.
I did let him know I’d be going to Hope House. Chloe was right that simply being there could be chalked up to professional necessity. But I can’t help the flicker of fear from sparking to life in my bones that he knows I was there finger painting a fucking panda bear with my number one prime suspect.
Or at least, that’s what she was.
The captain tosses another slip of paper in my direction, and I watch it flutter to my desk instead of trying to wrestle it from the air.
“Why?” is all he asks, questioning the reason Chloe’s Bug is still accruing parking tickets outside our office. It didn’t even occur to me to drive her here to pick it up instead of taking her back to her house. She didn’t mention it, either, but it’s not like she’s stranded. She does have another vehicle there she could use if she needed to—her mother’s vehicle that now has a matching tracker in it.
“I’ll take care of it,” I mumble, pinching the thin yellow paper between my fingers.
“You better,” he says gruffly, disappearing in the direction of his office again. It’s the first time since I’ve been back—since ever, actually—that he hasn’t demanded I stay away from her.
Alex raises his eyebrows at the interaction, staying silent across from me.
Daniel pokes his head out of the conference room down the hall, calling to us that we ‘have to see this.’ I share a glance with Alex before I follow him toward the conference room, and my eyes immediately snap to the board at the front of the room with Richard’s and Grayson’s faces on it. There’s a thin red strand of string between their pictures, implying a connection, and I let out a laugh at the sight. Lucy is hunched over an open folder, finger tracking a single sentence in a wall of words.
We don’t actually own red string. I’m pretty sure that’s something you only see on TV. I mean, that’s what the dry erase markers are for: drawing lines. I’m assuming Lucy went out and purchased it, excited to be following athreadon her first real case.
“We found it,” Daniel says, looking breathless and slightly manic. His shirt is untucked from his waistband, his hair a bit mussed as he crosses to the whiteboard and stabs a finger at Richard’s picture.
“Hefound it,” Lucy corrects, looking dejected.
“You’ll get your break,” I assure her, giving her a smile and turning my attention to the whiteboard.
“I think they were both involved in a trafficking ring,” Daniel explains, looking between the pictures and back to me and Alex. “Women, children. Stretching from here to Mt. Lance.” His finger traces another red thread that leads to a crude drawing of a snowcapped mountain off to the side representing the biggest city in the state, almost three-hundred miles away.
“How do you know that?” Alex asks him, leaning against a desk with his arms crossed. Daniel crosses to the folder in front of Lucy, pulling it away from her as she falls into her seat with a frustrated huff.
“The teacher’s family lives there.” He flips through the folder, pulling a paper out and holding it in our direction. I take it from him. It’s the statements of Richard’s children; statements that he finally got around to taking. “They said he visited every summer, but didn’t spend a lot of time with them. He’d be gone before they woke, and back in the evening after dinner most nights. They said he was irritable, and one of his kids said his grandson found multiple business cards in his bag.”
Alex takes the next paper that Daniel extends in our direction, and I peer over his shoulder at it. Multiple business cards are scanned onto the single page, the names of all of them some variation ofwomen’s shelterorgroup home.
“So, I called them,” Daniel says, waving a hand in the direction of the paper Alex is holding. “They all reported women and children going missing from their facilities over the past five years.”
Alex shrugs, treading carefully. “That’s notthatuncommon,” he hedges. He points to one of the scanned images of a business card. “This shelter is temporary housing for women in recovery. Sometimes they leave treatment early. Fall back into old habits and disappear for another few months.”Or forever.
Alex moves his finger to another image on the paper. “And this is a group home for runaway youth. They age out. Turn to the streets—”
“No.” Daniel shakes his head vehemently. “These shelters are different. The people who work there reportneverlosing contact with the people who come through their doors. They have a robust case management system in place. They maintain contact with their clients foryears,even if they choose to leave the facility. These shelters double as research locations. Some socioeconomic study that’s been going on for decades.”
I take the new stack of papers Daniel forces in my direction. The sheet of paper on top of the stack has a raised emblem in the top left corner.Cursive letters spellingSt. Michael’s Homessurround a sketch of hands pressed together in prayer.
“Like Alex said,” Lucy interjects, “addicts and runaways, they’re flighty. Is it so strange some of them flew the coop?”
I nod in agreement, thinking of my sister. She’s come and gone through countless treatment centers and halfway houses over the years. I can’t even say I know for sure where she’s at right now.
Daniel lets a closed manilla folder drop to the table in front of him with a loud slap, his posture confident even in the face of all our rebuttals.
“The only time they ever went missing was during the summers when Richard was in town.”
I fold my arms over my chest, intrigued by this rabbit hole Daniel has disappeared down.
I don’t bother asking him how long he’s been up, because sometimes that’s just how this detective game goes. Long nights with more coffee and questions than sleep.
“And Grayson?” I ask, wondering how the fake family man plays into this whole scenario.
Daniel returns to the whiteboard, turning his back to us and staring at the picture of Grayson Tyler. “He was reported in the area as well, also only during the summers.” He faces us with his hands on his hips. “There are no witnesses that put them together, but it’s quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”
