Page 194

"We should start with the shelters south of downtown," Ashby says as he merges onto the freeway.

He's already working through his second pint of coffee this morning. At this rate, caffeine deserves to get its own entry in the budget I know he has.

"We hit the outreach center after that," he adds.

Laurel nods. "What about the transit station?"

"Already called there," Ashby replies without taking his eyes off the road.

Laurel turns in her seat. "You called before six this morning?"

"Correct."

She looks at me as though I should explain. "Do you see what I have to deal with?"

"I've been dealing with him for fifteen years," I tell her. "He’s a walking spreadsheet."

Torin laughs from the back seat.

Ashby ignores all of us with the skill of a man who's spent years perfecting the craft.

The first few stops don't get us anywhere. People think they remember Maggie. Then the details start slipping apart.

Maybe it was her. Maybe it was somebody who looked like her. Maybe they saw her yesterday. Maybe it was last week.

Every conversation begins with hope and ends with another thread to chase. By midmorning, we're carrying more questions than answers, and every new lead seems determined to split into three more before we can catch our breath.

By ten o'clock, Laurel's chewing the inside of her cheek hard enough that I'm surprised she hasn't drawn blood.

I catch it while we're walking into our fourth shelter of the morning. She's been doing it for hours. Most people probably wouldn't notice. After spending this much time with her, I notice plenty.

Ashby notices the plans forming before Laurel ever says them out loud, while Torin somehow hears emotions nobody else catches. I end up watching the parts people forget to hide instead. Tight jaws. Stiff shoulders. Tiny habits that only appear when somebody's running themselves into the ground while insisting they're perfectly capable of another hour.

Laurel keeps insisting she's fine, but the cracks are starting to show whether she likes it or not.

The shelter sits on the edge of an industrial district surrounded by warehouses and aging brick buildings that have seen better decades. Inside, the receptionist studies Maggie's photograph long enough that nobody interrupts her, and every passing second tightens another knot somewhere behind my ribs.

Then she nods. "Yeah. I know that face."

Laurel grabs the edge of the desk. "You do?"

"I've seen her around."

My pulse punches hard enough that I feel it in my teeth.

After two days of chasing rumors and half remembered descriptions, those three words feel real in a way nothing else has. Maggie stops being a possibility and becomes a person who stood in this exact building.

"When?" Laurel asks.

The woman leans back in her chair. "A couple days ago, I think."

Close enough to send a rush of adrenaline through all four of us as we exchange looks.

"Was she okay?" Laurel asks.

The woman considers the question before answering. "She looked exhausted. But most people who come here do."

Laurel closes her eyes.