It wasn’t random.
That was the problem.
At first glance, the cases looked scattered—different years, different circumstances, different reasons for initial dismissal. Runaway. Voluntary disappearance. Left town. No evidence of foul play. But once I stripped away the labels and started lining up what mattered, patterns emerged like bruises under skin.
Age range clustered tighter than it should have.
Almost all women.
Most were reported missing by roommates, coworkers, or casual acquaintances. Very few by immediate family.
And every single one had last been seen in a liminal space—bars, marinas, parking lots near transit hubs. Places where people came and went. Places where it was easy to vanish without causing a ripple.
I circled a date on one page and then another on a different file.
“Rios.”
“Yeah.”
“Look at these.”
He circled around the table and leaned over my shoulder, close enough that the heat of him soaked into me without it being distracting. Much. I pointed, tapping the marker against the paper. “Different cases. Different years. Same two-week window.”
He frowned. “Seasonal.”
“Exactly.”
“High tourist season,” he said. “Temporary workers. Boats coming and going.”
My jaw tightened. “People who won’t be missed right away.” The marker squeaked as I underlined another name harder than necessary.
Rios said nothing as he returned to his own pile.
We kept working.
Time blurred the way it always did when I was deep in something that mattered. The dog shifted positions. The light outside changed angles, slipping toward that golden hour preceding full night. At some point, a sandwich materialized at my elbow. I could only assume Rios was doing the Carrera thing and feeding me because I couldn’t be bothered to stop long enough to do it myself, but I was too deep in the work to ask.
I was halfway through another file when I realized my shoulders were creeping up toward my ears.
I forced them down and took a breath.
The file in front of me was older. Ten years back. Closed. I scanned the summary, eyes moving faster now, the way they did when my brain was already jumping ahead.
Missing. Female. Early twenties. Last seen leaving work. Dismissed as voluntary.
I slid it to the side and reached for the next one in the folder.
This one was thinner. Fewer pages. Fewer notes. A closed case with the kind of administrative finality that suggested no one had ever expected it to go anywhere.
I skimmed the left side first—name, age, physical description. Nothing leapt out at me until I caught myself pausing on the “last seen” line.
Bar. Again.
Different name. Different year. Same category of space.
I didn’t comment. I just marked it and passed it to Rios.
He read in silence, brow furrowing deeper the longer he continued. When he handed it back, he didn’t need to say anything.
