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WEDNESDAY, JULY 27, 12:05 P.M.
“Oh. Oh, wow.” Molly stared at her laptop screen, disbelieving. Holy fucking shit.
“What?” Gabe asked.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He sat on the plastic chair next to hers, squeezing the rubber ball he’d just bought from the little shop in the corner of the veterinarian’s waiting room. It was a present for Shoe, because he felt guilty for forgetting about him. The woman behind the counter had informed them that they’d had a medical emergency with one of the animals, but that Shoe was fine and if they’d please wait, someone would bring the dog out as soon as possible.
Which was okay. No one had followed them in the rental car. There were no windows in the waiting room, and Molly was seated facing the only exterior door. Unlike the night they’d brought Shoe to the after-hours emergency vet, the waiting room was crowded with people—plus five big dogs who looked like they’d show an intruder who was boss.
Unless the intruder had a gun. But so did Molly. So did Gabe, for that matter. So she’d felt safe enough to open her laptop and research Nadia Hall. And she’d hit pay dirt.
Most of the fellow pet owners were looking at their phones and not paying attention to them, but she kept her voice pitched low. “It was just a whim,” she murmured. “But, look.”
She turned her screen so that Gabe could see.
“Whoa,” he whispered. “I thought Myspace was dead.”
“Me too. And a lot of the personal accounts are dead. Or left for dead, anyway.”
Including Nadia Hall’s account. It was a name only. No photo. No profile except New Orleans as a location. But her account still listed “connections.” She was connected to 98 people and 152 were connected to her.
The site listed the “top eight” connections for most users.
Enter the holy fucking shit.
Molly had tried Myspace as a last resort, because Antoine hadn’t found any records on Nadia Hall. No employment record, no tax records, no driver’s license. He had only found a birth certificate.
She’d been twenty-one years old when she was murdered.
And her top connection was a woman named April Frazier.
April Frazier had a Facebook account.
Molly toggled to the open Facebook tab in her browser. “Look. It’s current. Her last post was this morning.”
“Oh my God, Molly,” Gabe breathed. “Look at the photo of her daughter.”
“I know.” April Frazier had named her oldest daughter Nadia.
A quick search of the white pages yielded a current address in Biloxi, Mississippi. No phone number, which wasn’t a surprise. Very few people had landlines anymore.
Quickly she texted Burke, with screenshots of what she’d found. Look. NH’s BFF.
NICE, was Burke’s reply. Well done, grasshopper.
Molly snorted. She lives in Biloxi. Going there after we get Shoe from the vet.
Will have Antoine run background on the BFF, Burke texted back. Check in before you knock on her door.
Yes, sir. Anything new?
Just you, superstar. Antoine will be so annoyed he didn’t think of it.
Leaning over to read her screen, Gabe laughed. “I bet he will be.”
“Mr. Hebert?” a woman called from the doorway to an exam room. “Shoe’s ready to go. The doctor will see you now.”
Gotta go. Gabe just got called by vet. Later.
She slid her laptop into her handbag and followed Gabe into the office, feeling elated.
Finally. Now they were getting somewhere.
