“FOIA. Local request around a missing person’s case. Small jurisdiction. Everything that matters is redacted or withheld.”
There was a beat of silence I knew for what it was—recognition.
“All right. And you’re calling me because this isn’t just one missing person, is it.” He didn’t pose it as a question.
“No,” I admitted. “It’s not.”
“Okay,” Devon repeated. “Slow down. Give me the outline. Not the names yet. The shape.”
I drew a breath, organizing it the way I would’ve before a jury. Clean. Linear. No emotion unless it served the point.
“Small island,” I began. “One town. One police department. A lot of people who pass through seasonally. Workers, tourists, students. One woman recently disappeared—she doesn’t fit the profile of someone who just… leaves. And in the course of looking for her, I’ve stumbled onto something else.”
“Something that doesn’t live on paper,” Devon concluded.
“Yes. And I’m worried that if I handle this wrong, someone’s going to get hurt.”
Because he knew me, Devon’s tone shifted—still gentle, but sharper at the edges. Protective. “We are not getting the people who already have the least protection hurt because the system refuses to do its job.”
“I know.” Relief and frustration collided inside me. “That’s why I’m calling you.”
“All right,” Devon said. “Tell me.”
So I did, breaking it down with precision from beginning to end. “I think whoever took Priya meant to take someone else,” I continued. “Someone like Rosa. Someone who wouldn’t be reported missing, because the story would fill itself in. She left. She went home. She didn’t want to be found.”
“And you think that’s the point,” Devon said.
“Yes.”
“And now you’re asking yourself how many times that story has been used,” he finished.
A chill ran through me. “Yes.”
Devon exhaled slowly. “Okay. Then FOIA was never going to hand you the answer.”
“I know,” I said. “But it should have given me something. Now I need options that don’t rely on Carson. Or local resources. Because there aren’t any.”
“Right,” Devon said. “Tiny island. One town. Everybody knows everybody.”
“Exactly.”
“All right.” He shifted into Unaccounted mode—the voice he used when he was telling a story that deserved respect. “Then you build your own map. Not from what the system recorded. From what the system ignored.”
I gripped the edge of the bench. “How?”
“First,” Devon said, “you widen your sources. Missing persons databases.”
“NamUs,” I said automatically.
“NamUs, yes,” he confirmed. “But also state-level databases. Some states have separate missing persons bulletins. And don’t just search by name. Search by region, date ranges, age ranges. Look for ‘last seen’ near ferry terminals, marinas, tourist areas.”
I scribbled notes fast, my pen scratching over paper.
“And don’t assume people were ever entered,” Devon added. “But you’ll find some—the ones whose families had enough stability to report. Those become your anchor points.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Second,” he continued, “archived news. Not big outlets. Local papers. Community newsletters. That kind of ‘so-and-so hasn’t been seen’ blurb.”
