“Not responsible grad students in the middle of a field season,” Astrid burst out. “Not Priya. She doesn’t even like taking a day off. You’re talking about her like she’s some flaky tourist who decided on a whim to bail on a beach week.”
Carson turned his attention back to her, adopting that conciliatory expression I was rapidly growing to hate. “Dr. Thompson, I understand that you’re upset?—”
“Do you?” Her voice cracked, and she pushed on anyway. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re taking the first convenient explanation that lets you close the file and walk away.”
He sighed, the sound heavy with put-upon patience. “We have limited resources, Dr. Thompson. An adult leaving under her own power is not a crime. We can’t treat every abrupt departure as a kidnapping because it makes people uncomfortable.”
The words scraped something raw in me.
“’We can’t treat every abrupt departure as a kidnapping.’” I repeated softly. “That’s interesting language coming from the man who preached ‘leave no stone unturned’ when my fifteen-year-old cousin disappeared.”
His gaze snapped back to me, sharp now. “That was a child. This is not. Gwen’s case was entirely different.”
“Different because she was under eighteen,” I said. “Different because you could justify pulling out all the stops. Press conferences. Search parties. Volunteers combing the island. But the bare bones are the same, Chief. A girl vanished. People who knew her insist it’s out of character. And your first instinct—then and now—is to assume she wandered off with someone voluntarily.”
Something flashed across his face then. Not guilt, exactly. Irritation tangled with something that looked uncomfortably like weary defensiveness.
“We did everything we could for your cousin,” he said, and for a moment, the smooth professional façade cracked. “I have lived with the fact that we didn’t find her for over a decade. Don’t stand here and imply that my officers or I treat this lightly.”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m saying the pattern looks the same from here: You decide what’s likely, and you shape the investigation—or lack thereof—to fit.” I’d seen officers do that. Tailoring the evidence to their own preconceived notions rather than following where the evidence actually led. But I hadn’t thought Carson would be one of them.
His jaw flexed.
Beside me, Astrid looked between us, eyes wide. “Can we not make this into a pissing contest over ancient history while my student is still missing?”
“She’s not missing.” Carson seized on the one thing he could redefine. “Not anymore. You have an email from her. We have evidence she left the island of her own accord. Unless something concrete arises to contradict that, there is no basis for continuing this as an active missing person investigation.”
“Concrete like what?” I demanded. “A body? Is that what it takes now?”
He stared at me, and in that moment, I saw exactly how he’d held onto his job this long. There was steel under the salt-bleached exterior. The kind that got more rigid, not less, when pushed.
“What I see,” he said slowly, “is someone who spent years in big-city courts learning to see monsters in every shadow. And someone who experienced a terrible loss as a teenager that understandably warped her idea of what’s probable.”
The words landed like a slap. My spine snapped rigid.
“This girl is not your cousin, Ms. Reilly,” he went on, relentless now. “And Sutter’s Ferry is not Los Angeles. We followed procedure. We acted on the information we had. We conducted welfare checks, followed financial trails, and spoke to witnesses. We found no evidence of foul play. None. You may not like that conclusion, but that doesn’t make it any less valid.”
Astrid choked out, “So that’s it? You’re just… done?”
He glanced at her, softening his tone half a notch. “We’ll keep the file on record. If new information comes in, we’ll reassess. Until then, there’s nothing further for us to do.”
“For you to do,” I corrected under my breath.
Carson straightened, smoothing the front of his shirt with an economical swipe of his palm. “As far as this department is concerned, the matter is resolved. Miss Shah appears to have left voluntarily. The case”—he met my eyes again, making sure I heard every word—”is considered closed.”
Nine
RIOS
The marine lab had always looked smaller from the road.
A low rectangle of weathered siding and tinted windows, it sat just beyond the dunes, tucked behind a line of scrub like it was trying to stay out of the way. When I’d been a kid, it had been “that place with the tanks” we rode past on our bikes—a landmark, not a destination. I’d never had reason to come inside until Priya Shah disappeared.
This time, I pulled into the crushed shell parking lot just in time to see Chief Carson step out the front door. From the driver’s seat, I watched him walk toward his cruiser. His stride was steady, unhurried. Not the loose, exhausted drag of a man who’d stayed up all night beating the bushes for a missing girl. Nor the tight coil of someone holding bad news and dreading the delivery. He moved like a guy coming off a long but ordinary day. The job, not a crisis.
Had the girl turned up after all?
He slid into his car and sat for a second, staring straight ahead. I caught a faint profile of jaw clenched and set mouth. Then he shook his head once, like he was physically clearing out whatever thought had snagged him, and put the car in reverse.
