In Andi’s estimation, their setup for the “The Round Table Presents: Where the Trail Went Cold” tour rivaled that of many concerts. In every city they visited, they picked a cold case from that city to talk about. Plus, adding the “cold” element fit their Alaska roots.
And the photo backdrop?
It looked like a recording studio, complete with stylish microphones—nothing like where they actually recorded. But fans might imagine they were right there with them, recording a new episode, as they had their photos taken with them in front of it.
“Thank you so much for coming, Bailee with two Es,” Andi managed, her hand moving automatically across the fabric of the T-shirt. The Sharpie felt heavy in her grip, and the overhead fluorescent lights seemed too bright, too harsh. “It really means a lot.”
The fan beamed, clutching the shirt before disappearing into the crowd.
“You okay?” Duke’s voice was low, meant only for her ears as he leaned closer while signing a poster for his own admirer.
Andi nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure it was true. The past three weeks of touring the United States had been incredible—sold-out venues, enthusiastic crowds, more success than any of them had dared dream when they’d startedThe Round Tablepodcast back in Alaska at the Almost Halfway Trading Post nearly two years ago.
Down the line, frontwoman Mariella Boucher was in her element, gesturing dramatically as she relayed a behind-the-scenes story from their latest episode. Her twin brother, Matthew, who served as their tech guy, hovered just behind her, responding politely to fans while appearing as if he’d rather be on his computer.
Ranger Garrett stood stiffly beside them, doing his best impression of friendliness—which amounted to grunting answers about tracking techniques. His eleven-year-old daughter, Anastasia, sat on the other side of a curtain behind them, coloring with Karen, her nanny. Ranger and his wife, Simmy, had decided to homeschool Anastasia on the road, and Karen helped make that happen.
“Next!” Andi turned her attention to a woman—probably in her late twenties or early thirties—who waited at the edge of the table.
This fan wasn’t like the others. Her clothes were rumpled, her jacket half-zipped as though she’d thrown it on in a hurry. She clutched a manila folder tight against her chest, fingers white with strain. Her eyes—puffy, raw, exhausted—locked onto Andi’s with a fierce, trembling determination that made Andi’s breath catch.
“I need your help,” the woman said quietly, urgently. “My younger sister—Gina James—she’s gone missing, and I think something terrible has happened to her.”
The ambient roar of the convention center crowds seemed to recede for a moment.
Andi leaned forward, fully focused. “I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
“Pam.” Her voice quavered. “Pam James.”
“Tell me again why you’re here, Pam.”
“Gina is a lawyer here in San Francisco. Three days ago, she just . . . vanished. The police think she left on her own because of some things she’d been dealing with, but they don’t know her. She wouldn’t do that without telling me.”
Andi indicated for the woman to join her behind the table and then led her a few steps from the crowd to somewhere more private—though private was a relative term in the convention hall.
“What things has your sister been dealing with?” Andi asked, everything else suddenly fading from her thoughts.
Pam hesitated, shame flashing across her face. “She’d just ended a long-term relationship with a man who . . . didn’t take it well. She confided in me that he’d been unpredictable since the breakup. And she’s been overwhelmed at work. But she wouldn’t run. Not like this.”
Beside Andi, Duke stopped signing and looked up. His attention sharpened, and he shifted his stance a fraction closer to Andi, signaling he was listening and available if she needed him.
“Pam.” Andi chose her words carefully. “We’re not official investigators. We’re storytellers. We talk about cases, but we don’t?—”
“I know you’re podcasters. But I also know you have an incredible success rate when youhavetaken on investigations. Your team does what underfunded and understaffed police departments can’t. And Gina—” Her voice broke. “She’s all I have. Please . . . just hear me out.”
Andi waited for her to continue.
Pam opened the folder with trembling fingers. “Last Sunday, someone broke into her apartment. This creep tied Gina up, but he didn’t hurt her or steal anything. The police found no evidence that the man was ever there. No fingerprints. Nothing except some zip ties that the police said didn’t prove anything.”
Andi’s pulse spiked as she waited for Pam to continue.
“This is the last text I got from her.” Pam pulled out a printed screenshot. “It was Tuesday night. She said she was in trouble. Then she went radio silent.”
Heaviness settled in Andi’s chest—along with a shot of curiosity.
Pam’s gaze pleaded with her. “Please. I don’t know where else to turn. Will you help me find my sister?”
Before Andi could answer, Rupert Ashford materialized beside their table like a frantic, immaculately dressed apparition—his bow tie crooked, hair slightly rumpled, the universal sign of a man moments from unraveling.
