Maybe she made it to the garage and somebody took her.
Maybe this was never just one thing.
The thought hits like a crowbar to the ribs.
“Where are you now?” I ask.
“Still on-site. We’re pulling garage footage, but it’s taking—”
“Don’t leave.”
“I’m not.”
I hang up and stand there in the middle of her room, breathing like I’ve been in a fight.
Could be either. That’s the problem.
If she ran, I drag her back myself. Lock her away. She’ll never leave again.
If she was taken—
My vision goes white for half a second.
The phone rings again.
Santo.
I answer on the first ring. “Yeah?”
Santo doesn’t waste time. “We got a hit on one of her cards.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Where?”
“A plane ticket. Booked this morning. One-way to Chicago.”
For a second, I don’t say anything.
Chicago.
It doesn’t make sense. Not in any way that matters.
“She doesn’t know anybody in Chicago,” I say.
Santo is quiet for half a beat. “That you know of.”
The words hit wrong. Cold. Sharp. Designed to cut.
My eyes drag back to the backpack in the corner. The half-open zipper. The empty place where the money should be.
Seventeen grand gone.
One-way ticket.
My car.
Her phone crushed.
Every piece fits.
