“She went to dump trash in the dumpster literallyinchesfrom the back door. No one thought anyone would be waiting for her there, and clearly someone was.”
“Could she have gone home, maybe?” It’s wishful thinking to ask, but I’m trying not to jump to the one place I’m hoping she’s not.
He shakes his head. “Her car is outside, and her purse is in the staff room. She was in her work uniform and apron. That’s it.”
I glance toward the condo, desperate to rush over to the diner now, though not without at least letting Wyatt and Knox know all this first. They love her as much as I do. They need to be part of this. “Where are the others?”
Before Elias can explain, Wyatt and Knox burst out of the condo, shove their hard hats on the same table I left mine on, and jog toward us. Both look as worried as I feel.
“August said you were looking for us. Something about Maisie,” Wyatt says.
“She’s missing,” I say.
His face contorts with rage. “Derek.”
“Maybe not. There could be another explanation for it,” Elias hedges, though the look on his face says he doesn’t believe it. “We have to go. I spoke to the supervisor when I got Nico’s call about Maisie. He said to grab you and go. Don’t worry about the condo.”
It’s times like these I appreciate not having a dick for a boss.
“Car?” Wyatt asks, reaching for his truck keys.
“Might be faster to walk,” Knox suggests. “It’s going to be a pain in the ass finding parking in town now.”
It always is around lunchtime. It’s why we’d walk to the diner for lunch instead of driving.
“Good point.” Wyatt pockets his keys, and we make what is usually a five-to-ten-minute walk to the diner in a couple of minutes at a flat-out sprint.
As Knox predicted, there’s no parking on Rios’s busiest street, where the bulk of the stores are. Three patrol cars occupy the few spaces that other vehicles haven’t taken up. Looks like the sheriff and both his deputies are here.
On the other side of the road, I spy a familiar group of guys all wearing navy t-shirts. The firefighters. Noah, the blond-haired fire station chief, is in a deep conversation with Lawrence, a deputy cop. As if he feels my attention, he glances our way and lifts his hand in a wave. I return it as the fear I’d swallowed when Elias told me that Maisie was missing rises.
The firefighters being here isn’t a good sign. If they’re here talking to Lawrence, then they’re here to help look for her. If that’s the case, then the sheriff knows or is at least pretty certain that someone took her, and he’s called all hands to sweep the streets.
The moment she stepped into the alley beside the diner, someone ambushed her. They could only have succeeded if they were in the diner or close by, watching and waiting to get her alone.
It sounds exactly like something Derek, her ex, who's stalked her for months, would do.
I peer into the diner as we pass it to get to the alley. It’s emptier than I’ve seen it before, especially now when people like to stop in to grab a snack or a quick meal on their way home from work. The few people inside are visibly worried as they nurse their coffee.
Through the glass, I spot Winston, the short-order cook, usually singing or laughing, standing in the kitchen doorwaywith his arms folded over his stained white apron, frowning as he peers out of the window.
The sheriff is chatting with Gary, his other deputy, halfway down the alley, behind yellow tape that blocks anyone from venturing farther. He spots us and motions us back as he heads toward us. “Wait there. I’ll come to you. Could be evidence down here.”
The fear that I’ll step on important evidence he might need to find Maisie is the only reason I listen. I’m guessing it’s the same reason Elias, Wyatt, and Knox don’t charge down the alley either.
“Have you found anything, Sheriff?” Wyatt asks Sheriff Watson after he’s ducked under the police tape.
I stop breathing as I wait for his response.
Please don’t tell us there was blood down that alley or that Maisie could be lying somewhere dead or dying.
The sheriff rests his hands on his hips. “Nothing that can tell us where she is.” He holds one hand up before we can all jump down his throat from the way we all surge toward him. “That doesn’t mean we won’t find her,” he continues, lowering his hand when we let him talk. “We know she wouldn’t have walked away without telling someone where she was going, and her car is still out front.”
We passed it on our way.
“So?” I prompt, impatient to get information we don’t already know.
The sheriff focuses on me. “So that means the person who took her?—”
