She’d been seven years old when she disappeared. Carson had been seventeen, home from school, supposed to be watching her. But he’d been on the phone with a girl, distracted, and Lily had gone outside to play.
Five minutes. That’s all it took. Five minutes of not paying attention, and she was gone.
Twenty-seven years later, and he still saw her face every time he closed his eyes. Still heard her laugh. Still felt the crushing weight of failure that said he should have protected her.
That’s why Carson became a cop. That’s why he didn’t stop. That’s why he bent rules and took risks and pushed harder than anyone else.
Because someone else’s sister might not have to disappear. Someone else’s daughter might come home safe. Someone else might get the justice his family never did.
“The Hutchins scene,” Carson said, changing the subject. “Looks like a revenge killing. Execution style. I’ll need to dig into his background, see who he pissed off.”
Holloway let him change the subject. That was the thing about him—he knew when to push and when to let things breathe. “Keep me updated. And, Carson?”
“Yeah?”
“By the book this time. Please.”
“By the book,” he agreed.
They both knew he was lying.
***
Carson spent the rest of the morning running down leads on the Hutchins case. Turned out the victim had been a bail bondsman before he retired, which meant he’d made plenty of enemies. People who’d lost their money when someone skipped bail. People who’d gone to jail because he’d tracked them down.
The list of suspects was going to be long.
By noon, Carson’s eyes were crossing from staring at case files and computer screens. He needed food and coffee, in that order.
The Brew & View was packed with the lunch crowd, but Maggie Reeves behind the counter spotted him and waved. “Usual, Detective?”
“Please. And a turkey sandwich.”
“You got it, hon.”
Carson found a table in the corner and pulled out his phone, scanning through emails. Most of it was administrative stuff—reports to file, court dates to remember, interdepartmental memos he’d ignore.
One email caught his attention. From the state crime lab. DNA results on the Sullivan case from three months ago.
He opened it, read through the technical jargon. Thenread it again.
No match in the system. The DNA they’d pulled from the crime scene didn’t match anyone in the database.
Dead end.
Carson closed his eyes and breathed through the frustration. The Sullivan case was going cold. Young woman attacked in her home, barely survived, gave them a description of her attacker but not a name. They’d found evidence, done everything right, and still they had nothing.
Another case he couldn’t solve. Another victim waiting for justice.
“Carson Black?”
He looked up. A woman stood next to his table, maybe late twenties, with auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail and dark circles under her eyes like she hadn’t slept in a week. She clutched a purse against her stomach like a shield. Even terrified, she was stunningly beautiful.
“Can I help you?” Carson asked, forcing himself to focus.
“I—” She hesitated, glancing around the coffee shop like she wasn’t sure she should be here. “I need to report something. They said at the station that you were here, that I could find you...”
Most people didn’t track down detectives in coffee shops. They called the station, filed a report, went through proper channels.
