"Maya taught Tommy Vickers nine years ago," I said. "She reported his abuse. She kept the card he wrote her." I pointed at the side-by-side comparison. "This is his handwriting."
Rodriguez set down his coffee and leaned forward to study the images. His face had gone grim.
"She's not just a potential target," I said. "She'sthetarget. He's been building toward her this whole time."
"You're sure about this?"
"Left-handed. Distinctive letter formation. The same backward slant on every letter." I tapped the card. "It's him."
Rodriguez studied the images for a long moment. Then he picked up his phone.
Within an hour, we had a full briefing. Fire marshal. Two NYPD detectives. Someone from the DA's office was on speakerphone. Tommy's card sat in an evidence bag on the conference table, the childish handwriting now a key piece of an arson investigation.
One of the detectives, Diaz, with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, spent twenty minutes comparing the card to enlarged photos of the crime scene messages. She had a background in forensic document examination, Rodriguez told me later. When she finally looked up, her expression was grim.
"It's a match," she said. "The letter formation, the baseline slant, the way he loops his Y's and crosses his T's. This was written by the same person."
The room went quiet. We had a name now. A face. Somewhere out there
They ran Tommy Vickers through every system they had access to.
And they came up with nothing.
Last known address: a group home in the Bronx. Aged out a year ago. After that, the trail went cold. No forwarding address. No driver's license. No employment records. No social media accounts. No credit history. No utility bills in his name.
Tommy Vickers didn't exist on paper anymore.
"This is the problem with aged-out foster kids," the NYPD liaison said, rubbing his eyes. He looked as tired as I felt. "The system tracks them until they're eighteen, then cuts them loose. After that, they're ghosts. Could be couch-surfing. Could be homeless. Could be working cash jobs under the table." He shook his head. "We've got a name, but no way to find him."
My jaw tightened. The system had failed Tommy for nine years—and now couldn’t even locate him because it stopped paying attention the moment he became an adult.
Rodriguez put a hand on my shoulder. "We'll get protective detail on P.S. 147 and any other schools connected to his history. Canvas shelters, soup kitchens, anywhere he might turn up. Someone knows where this kid is."
"I want on that detail."
Rodriguez studied me. His eyes were sharp, assessing. "You're involved with her."
"Yes." There was no point in lying. Brian had been giving me shit for weeks about how I smiled at my phone every time Maya texted. And Rodriguez wasn't stupid. He'd known something was different the moment I started volunteering for every call in Maya's district.
Rodriguez didn’t say anything. I could see him weighing it. The protocol said no. Common sense said no. But he had beendoing this job for twenty years. He knew that sometimes the rules were bent for a reason.
"I'll see what I can do," he said finally. "But Shane—if this gets personal, you're off. Understood?"
"Understood."
I'd take it. For now.
That next morning, I told Maya everything.
The briefing. Detective Diaz confirmed the handwriting match. The search for Tommy came up empty because the system stopped tracking him the moment he turned eighteen. The protective detail was being set up at her school. And the fact that I'd asked to be assigned to it.
She listened without interrupting, curled up on the couch with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold. When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
"So what happens now?" she asked.
"Now we wait. We watch. NYPD is canvassing shelters, soup kitchens, anywhere Tommy might turn up." I hesitated. "And I think… you should consider taking some time off. Just until we find him."
The words hung in the air between us. Maya set down her mug. Slowly. Deliberately.
