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Lila: Yeah, that sounds miserable.

Serena: It was disruptive and inefficient.

Calla: Of course that’s your takeaway.

I’m barely through the door, my head still throbbing with the aftershocks of the drive, when I discover that Tamsin has completely taken over my room.

Case folders are spread across the rug in uneven piles, color-coded sticky notes blooming from the pages like wildflowers. An uncapped yellow highlighter lies abandoned beside her laptop, which is balanced precariously on one of my throw pillows. Saltine crumbs have become part of the carpet's ecosystem, and multiple empty cans of ginger ale are lined up beside her like trophies.

She’s sprawled out in the thick of it with a half-empty sleeve of crackers, looking every bit like someone who has completely dug in and nested for the long haul.

“What are you doing?” I croak.

She doesn’t even look up, just slides a manila folder toward me with the toe of her socked foot. They're patterned with little skulls wearing pink bows. Somehow, that feels exactly like Tamsin. “I got bored. And since we’re officially a biohazard unit now, I figured the theoretical ‘No Entry’ sign on your door was more of a suggestion. Marj let me in.”

I run through the legalities. “Marj let you in? That... that has to be a breach of contract. Or a felony. It’s definitely a violation of privacy.”

“Oh, calm down, Professor Protocol. You’ll forgive us both once you see what I’ve found.” She taps a finger on a photocopied signature. "I was looking at the evidence intake logs from the day Mara arrested that dude with the bones in his trunk. The responding officer logged a green military duffel bag in the scene inventory. It's listed right there, along with a spare tire and a jack. But it never receives an evidence number. The remains do. The clothing does. The soil samples do. The bag just...disappears."

“Hold that thought,” I gesture vaguely at the jeans I’ve been living in for far too many hours. “Let me at least get out of these clothes before you continue. I can’t process a conspiracy while I’m feeling this wound tight.” I cringe. “And gross.”

Tamsin just rolls her eyes. I retreat to the bathroom, peeling off the layers of the last eighteen hours. I splash cold water on my face, trying to scrub the grey out of my skin, and pull on my softest pajamas. I give myself a once over in the mirror, satisfied, and step back out.

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, my mind is buzzing.

Tamsin takes a long drink from her ginger ale. “Shall I continue?”

I wave a hand, impatient.

"I kept digging," she continues, her voice gaining that manic, investigative edge. "I checked every supplemental inventory, every property receipt, every chain-of-custody form I could get my hands on. Nothing. It's documented at the scene, then it vanishes from the paperwork completely. Here’s the worst part of it all: the bones were originally in the bag."

No. How is this even possible?

Normally I'd already be three questions ahead. Right now I'm still trying to remember how to blink.

"My guess? Someone didn't want the bag looked at too closely," Tamsin says, cramming a saltine in her mouth. "Which is why I called the police department. Evan is on his way over now."

“You did what?”

"He's the only one I'm not suspicious of, Serena. He's basically a Labrador in a badge. He blushes when people swear in front of him, practically wags his tail when he sees you.”

I glare at her.

She rolls her eyes in response. “If Evan's involved, I'll choke down this entire box of saltines without a single sip of water. We need to figure out what happened to that duffel bag before we can do anything else. Deal with it."

An inventory of everything we’re at risk of losing starts running in my head.

Fingerprints on the zipper pull. Trace DNA caught beneath the handles. Fibers woven into the seams from wherever the bag had been stored before Casey was hidden inside it. Soil packed into the corners. Pollen. Paint transfer. Pet hair. Wear patterns on the straps that could tell us how it had been carried. Stress pulls in the stitching that might reveal how much weight it had held, or for how long. The manufacturer's label. A serial number. Even the way the remains had been folded inside could have told us something about the person who put her there.

We aren’t just missing a duffel bag. We’re missing an entire crime scene.

“That’s... that’s not possible,” Evan rubs a hand over his face. He stares at the paperwork like it’s cursed.

“And yet,” I tap the page.

Evan pushes to his feet and begins pacing the cramped hotel room. “I need to keep this between us. If this paperwork is accurate, then a major piece of evidence was documented at the scene and somehow never made it into the evidence locker.”

He stops so abruptly the room seems to stop with him. One hand braces against the dresser, his jaw working as he stares at nothing.