I held the screen out so Elliott could see. “This is who we’re looking for. Name’s Priya Shah. Twenty-three. Five-four, maybe. Glasses most of the time, according to her advisor.”
He studied the image for a long moment, then nodded and leaned in toward the monitors. “Okay. Here comes the line for the five-thirty.”
We watched people filter into frame at the ticket counter—families juggling luggage, construction workers in reflective vests, a couple with matching duffels. Sped up, it all passed in a blur, but I trained my gaze on hair color, height, body type.
A figure with dark hair and a backpack stepped into view. My pulse kicked.
“Slow it to normal,” I said.
The playback resumed at regular speed. A young woman in a tank top and leggings waited her turn, shoulders hunched. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, strands frizzed from the humidity. Medium brown skin; not as deep as some of the other passengers, but definitely not pale. She stood at about the height I’d estimate from the photo. No glasses that I could see, though the image resolution wasn’t great.
“Could be,” I said quietly.
Madden leaned closer, frowning. “We need a better angle on her face.”
On the waiting area feed, the same woman appeared a minute later, now with a paper ticket in her hand. She took a seat near the windows, backpack at her feet. Her profile was turned away from the camera. She pulled out her phone, tapped at the screen, then shoved it back into her pocket.
“Zoom doesn’t do much,” Elliott warned. “These are fixed-angle cameras, not cinema quality.”
“Try anyway,” Willa said.
He enlarged the waiting room feed to fill the main monitor, then digitally zoomed in as far as the grain would allow. The image pixelated, exactly as he’d warned. The angle still wasn’t giving us enough of her face. Chin, cheekbone, part of her nose. No full frontal shot that would let us say, yes, that’s Priya or no, that’s someone else.
“Does she have a rolling suitcase?” Madden asked. “Backpack only, or anything else?”
“Backpack,” I said. “And…” I squinted. “Looks like a small duffel under her feet now.”
“That doesn’t match what Carson said.” Madden’s voice edged sharp. “He described a backpack and a rolling suitcase.”
“People carry more than one bag,” Willa pointed out gently. “She might have set the rolling one somewhere else.”
We watched as the woman adjusted in her seat, pulling the backpack into her lap. At one point, she rubbed at the bridge of her nose like you might if you’d just taken off glasses. That sent a little ping of recognition through me.
“It’s not nothing,” I murmured.
“But it’s not confirmation,” Madden countered. “We can’t say that’s her. We also can’t say it isn’t.”
The boarding call must’ve gone out; on-screen, passengers began to rise. Our maybe-Priya stood and shouldered her pack. This angle did show us one more thing—a flash of her profile, lips compressed, chin tucked down. Too blurred to really read her expression, but something about her posture screamed braced.
The view shifted to the walkway camera as people filed toward the ramp. From behind, all we had to go on were silhouettes and gaits. The young woman’s stride was purposeful, not dragging, not stumbling. She didn’t appear to be escorted or flanked. She didn’t look back.
“She’s alone,” Elliott said. “If that’s her.”
“If,” Madden repeated.
We let the footage play until the last of the line vanished down the ramp, then for a few beats more. No one matching her description came back the other way in that window.
Elliott finally hit pause. “That’s the whole load. After that, the next timestamp jumps to the seven o’clock crowd.”
The room felt smaller suddenly, the humming of the server fans louder.
“Okay.” I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “Let’s sum this up. We have a woman who could be Priya. Right height, right general build, dark hair, traveling alone, gear is consistent with someone leaving the island for more than a day trip.”
“But we can’t see her face clearly enough to confirm,” Madden said. “And the bag details don’t exactly line up with what Carson relayed.”
“And we don’t see her buy the ticket—just that she has one.” I nodded at the ticket counter feed. “The card trail says that ticket was purchased with a card in Priya’s name. But as we both know…” I glanced at her. “Cards get stolen. Or used under duress.”
She met my gaze, understanding flashing there. “Or cloned. Or handed over.”
