“What about shots?” I had asked. “Who gave her the shots?”

“I don’t believe in them,” Marissa had answered. “They make children sick. They are no good for them.”

I knew of other parents who felt that way, so I couldn’t exactly argue against it, but it still puzzled me that she never even took the child to see a pediatrician.

“She was never sick,” was her response to my concern when I asked her about it during our first interview. “There was no need to.”

I had talked to the personnel at the nearest hospital in Cape Canaveral, in case Emma had somehow ended up there, or to at least let them know to keep an eye out for her if someone brought her in. I scoured social media for any clues. I posted in local Facebook groups letting them know to keep an eye out. I had a drawing made by a professional, from Marissa’s early description and memory of her daughter, then sent it out to the local media outlets, and I posted it in local social media groups, hoping to get something.

But everything came up empty.

Chief Doyle’s words rang in my ears. To keep searching for a ghost was a long shot, I knew that, and one that could cost me dearly. Yet I couldn’t let it go.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that there most definitely was more to this case than met the eye.

I thought of Cassandra’s family, waiting for answers, while arriving at the medical examiner’s office. I felt a strong sense of responsibility, knowing that whatever the report said, it would be my job to deliver the news. I clenched my hands around the steering wheel, steeling myself for whatever lay ahead.

I stepped out of the car and a chill ran down my spine. The air was thick and heavy with a nauseating smell that reminded me of death and decay. As I made my way to the entrance of the morgue, the gravel crunched beneath my shoes.

The door creaked open, and I stepped inside, feeling a chill in the air. Inside was a small room filled with cold metal tables and fluorescent lights. There was a strange stillness in the room that seemed almost eerie to me. Maybe it was just the situation.

I walked farther into the room, my footsteps echoing off the walls. In the corner, a figure emerged from the shadows, shrouded in a white coat. It was Dr. Phillips.

He motioned for me to come closer and handed me a yellowed piece of paper. It was the autopsy report. I would also receive a digital copy, but this would do for now. I followed him into the autopsy room. The smell of antiseptic filled the air, and I could feel my sense of unease grow. I looked around the room. The walls were a dreary white, the air thick with an oppressive silence. We walked in single file, my footsteps echoing off the tiled floor. As we approached the autopsy table, I saw her.

Cassandra Perez.

Her body so small it seemed to barely reach the edges of the table. Her skin was pale, and she had a peaceful look on her face, as if she had been sleeping.

Dr. Phillips approached me, his hands encased in gloves. He touched her neck and then turned to me, his face a mask of sorrow.

“She’s been strangled,” he said quietly.

I felt my throat tighten, the tears welling up in my eyes. I couldn’t believe that this sweet young life had been taken away so cruelly. It just wasn’t right.

Dr. Phillips’s voice was a whisper as he told me the details of her death. All I could do was nod my head in silence, my heart breaking for this family who had lost their daughter. All I could think was that it could have been me. It could have been me getting the news that I was never going to hold my daughter again.

“There were no signs of rape,” he said.

“So, it’s not a sexual motive; that’s a relief, at least,” I said.

“She definitely died from asphyxiation,” he said. “But not with the use of hands or a rope or cord. I believe it was a belt that was being used. It was tied around her neck and then tightened. There were pressure marks, bruises, which were similar from that of a belt buckle, a big one.”

“Oh, wow,” I said. “That’s brutal. So drowning is definitely not an option?”

“She was dead when she entered the water, no doubt about it, as there was only a little water in her lungs,” he said.

“Time of death?” I asked.

“Death occurred between three and four o’clock the day before she was found,” he said.

“Right about the time she was supposed to arrive at Marissa’s house, so Marissa could go in for her shift,” I said.

Dr. Phillips sighed. It felt deep. He was a renowned medical examiner, who had done so many of these over the years. But this one was getting to him; I could tell as wrinkles grew deep in his weathered face.

“I sometimes wonder… what this world has come to, when anyone can do something like this,” he said with a soft exhale. He shook his head sorrowfully.

The chill in the air seemed to penetrate my very bones as I left him and the morgue. I walked back to my car, happy to leave this place behind me, but wondering about the details of this case.

Whoever had killed Cassandra, had probably done so on her way to the babysitting job. But why? And was it the same person who had taken Emma? It was highly plausible. I had to find that girl before it was too late. I was beginning to wonder if Marissa could be a suspect.

The next day I received a call.

EIGHTEENBILLIE ANN

It was Rose from the reception desk on the other end. “I have a woman on the line for you. I think you should take it. Sounds urgent.”

“Okay, put her through.”

“H-hello?”

“Hello, this is Detective Billie Ann Wilde, who am I speaking to?”

A sniffle was followed by a cough. “I don’t really know who to talk to, but I know y’all are looking for a young child, right?”

“That’s correct. Have you seen her?” I asked.

A silence followed, and I wondered for a second if it was just another prank call. We have had a lot of those lately.

“I think so,” she said. “She looked a lot like her if you ask me.”

Now she had my attention. “What do you mean? Where?”

“I… I saw a man with a child who fits the description that has been in the media,” she said. “He was dragging her along against her will. She didn’t seem like she wanted to go with him at all.”

“How did the man seem?” I asked.

“Agitated and nervous.”

“And where was this?”

“I saw him dragging her by the arm earlier in the day toward a house on Ninth Street. I don’t know if it is her, but the picture on the TV caught my attention and I thought I’d let you know. It has been nagging at me ever since.”

“Thank you so much. I’m very happy you did,” I said and hung up. I stared at the address she had given me. It was right near where Cassandra and Emma both lived. It was worth following up on.

I drove down A1A and stopped at Ninth Street, on the corner where the woman said she had seen him. Then I stopped the engine and sat in a parking space next to it. There were three houses, all small beach bungalows that were usually rented out as one or two bedrooms, often to surfers who just needed to cross the street to get to the beach and those alluring waves.

As I sat there thinking about my own children when they were Emma’s age, and how adorable they had been, yet quite a handful, the door to a garage opened and a car backed out. It was a black SUV, and a man fitting the description the woman had given me was sitting in the driver’s seat. He had long blond hair in a ponytail and was tall and lanky.