That calm certainty and insistence they were doing everything humanly possible had been the one thing keeping us upright in those early hours. Despite how he’d treated us last night, that’s who I expected this morning.
But the man who stepped into Astrid’s cramped office now… felt different. Or maybe I was. Maybe the years had made me harder, less willing to assume the best.
“Dr. Thompson.” Carson gave her a courteous nod before his gaze moved to me. “Ms. Reilly.”
Not Madden. And certainly not the softer, paternal “kiddo” he’d used when Gwen vanished. Apparently, adulthood had earned me a formal demotion.
Astrid gestured toward the computer. “We just received an email from Priya. It came through just before I called.”
“So I understand.” Carson stepped closer. “May I?”
She pulled up the message again and angled the screen toward him. I watched his eyes as he read it—once, without expression, then again, a tiny furrow appearing between his brows. Not confusion, exactly. Something closer to reassessment.
But he didn’t ask the questions I expected.
No: Have you spoken with her emergency contact yet?
No: Is this in character for her?
No: Do you suspect someone else might’ve typed this?
Instead, he straightened, folding his hands behind his back in that same composed, reassuring posture he’d used in every press conference about Gwen.
Only this time, the tone didn’t land the same way.
“You said last night she hadn’t made contact at all,” he said.
“She still hasn’t.” Astrid’s voice broke over the words. “I called her twice after this came in. Straight to voicemail. She didn’t text. She didn’t call before she supposedly left. This isn’t like her.”
Carson nodded like he’d heard the same from countless worried parents, a small wrinkle of genuine sympathy appearing. “I can understand why this feels abrupt. But it does give us something to work with.”
I waited for the next part. Now we dig deeper. Now we widen the search. Now we take this seriously.
But instead, he said, “This may actually fit with what my officers found this morning.”
A faint chill slid down my spine.
Fit with. Like he’d already built a framework and now the pieces were clicking neatly into place.
“How do you mean?” Astrid asked.
“They conducted a welfare check at her apartment earlier,” he said. “From what they observed, it appears many of her personal belongings have been removed. Clothing, toiletries, electronics.”
Astrid’s eyebrows pulled together, unsure. “This morning? Before she emailed?”
He didn’t blink. “Correct.”
I tried to process that.
It wasn’t damning on its face—people did pack in the middle of the night. But something about the timing scratched against instinct.
Carson continued. “There was no sign of disturbance of any kind.”
I waited again for the next logical step.
But we’ll confirm that timeline.
We’ll double-check with the landlord.
