I don’t often catalog my calls but all evening, I’ve been thinking about it.
Because I need somewhere to put the thoughts bouncing around in my head besides work files and call logs kept in our internal system.
Date. Time. Location.
Female. Early-twenties. No ID provided.
Superficial injuries inconsistent with reported mechanism.
Grip marks: bilateral. Upper forearms.
Hypervigilant behavior. Refusal to identify self.
Possible trafficking indicators.
I pause.
Similar presentation to case three weeks ago.
My pen presses hard enough into the paper to indent it. Because I know what this looks like and what it feels like.
I want someone to connect the dots, but will they? Will Alex and Mason know about the case weeks ago? Will the woman today even be included as a possibility since she didn’t give a statement and technically didn’t even confirm whether it was an attempted kidnapping… trafficking… something?
I close the notebook slowly, fingers lingering on the cover as it rests on my lap. Then I gently move it back to the coffee table, careful not to wake Pip.
Across the room, my phone sits on the kitchen counter, dark and silent. Pip shifts in his sleep, rolling onto his back.
But my thoughts drift to a man in a button-up shirt with something heavier hidden underneath it, to the way he watches everything, and to the way he said, “be careful.”
My teeth clench. If something is happening here, if there’s a pattern, then he might already know. No,probablyknows. And in that case, why hasn’t he said anything?
The idea sits with me long after I turn off the lights and head to bed. And for the first time in a long time, I double-check that my apartment door is locked, then prop up a barstool in front of it.
Just in case.
Chapter 6
Alex
I didn’t mean to turn onto her block. I just… turned early. Onto her street.
Technically, we need to be at the next block down anyway-
“Thornton.”
Mason doesn’t look up from the file in his hands when he says it, which is exactly how I know he’s paying attention.
“You’re gonna wear a tire path in the pavement,” he adds.
“I’m working,” I reply.
“Uh-huh.” He flips a page. “Three drive-bys in the last two days. One warehouse sweep, one informant that gave us nothing, and somehow you keep ending up on the same block where-” He finally looks up. There’s a look on his face I don’t like. “-your EMT lives.”
I don’t respond because anything I say is going to confirm it, especially in his mind.
He exhales through his nose, leaning back slightly. “You want an excuse; I can give you one.”
“I don’t need an excuse.”
