My blood turns to ice.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
"What woman? What did she look like?"
"I don't know. Older, maybe forties? Dark hair? I wasn't really paying attention, we were busy." He's starting to look concerned now, picking up on my energy. "Is something wrong?"
I don't answer.
I'm already moving toward the door, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
A woman approached her. Talked to her. Got her to leave the bar.
Some woman came in.
Seemed like she knew her.
I burst through the door and into the sunlight, spinning in a circle, scanning for any sign of her.
The courtyard is full of people—prospects working on bikes, old ladies on the porch, kids running through the grass—but none of them are Dalla.
"Dalla!" I shout. Heads turn. People stop what they're doing. "Has anyone seen Dalla?"
Confused looks. Shaking heads. Someone asks what's wrong.
I don't have time to explain.
I run around the side of Bubba's, checking every angle, every corner.
My training kicks in—systematic search pattern, controlled but urgent.
The gap between buildings catches my eye—a narrow shadowed space between the bar and a storage shed.
The kind of place you might take someone if you didn't want to be seen.
The kind of place where no cameras would catch you.
I slow down as I approach, every sense on high alert.
The gravel is disturbed here, scuffed and scattered like there was a struggle.
Deep gouges in the dirt, like someone was dragged. And there?—
Her bag.
Dalla's bag, lying in the dirt like she dropped it.
Or like it was torn from her shoulder.
I pick it up with shaking hands.
My hands never shake.
I'm trained to be steady under pressure, to maintain control in the worst situations.
But right now, holding the bag of the woman I love, knowing someone took her?—
My hands are shaking.
