I held up the photo.
"You seen her?"
Mumbled denials.
Same at the next cluster.
And the next.
Frustration coiled tighter in my gut with every step, but I kept going.
I had to.
Then I spotted him.
An old man in a faded army jacket perched on a milk crate.
Sharp eyes.
Not broken yet.
I approached slowly, holding out the photo.
"You seen her?"
He squinted, then let out a dry chuckle.
"That's Jamie. But she's a Black girl, not Latina."
He cocked his head.
"Cousins or something?"
Jamie.
My pulse slammed.
Jamie.
Her name bounced around my head.
"Where can I find her?"
I kept my voice flat.
He leaned back.
"What's it worth to you?"
I narrowed my eyes.
I could've put my gun to his head.
Instead, I pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
He took it, examined it, then nodded.
"She crashes at the old lady's place on Gandy, across from the theater. You know it?"
