Scott and Tom had checked Cassandra’s usual spots, like the local mall and the arcade, the library, and the park, talking to people there, asking them questions about her. I even went to the high school, but the principal said she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. Cassandra was a straight-A student who always showed up and was known to be a good friend to everyone. Nothing seemed off. The only person I hadn’t spoken to was Cassandra’s father.
When I arrived at their house, it was Mrs. Perez’s sister who opened the door. She told me to walk into the living room. In there, I was met with a heartbreaking sight; Cassandra’s mother was sobbing quietly in the corner of the living room while a man, who I assumed was Cassandra’s father, stood still as a statue, his gaze empty of emotion.
I cleared my throat, but they didn’t look at me. I walked to the father and reached out my hand.
“I’m Detective Billie Ann Wilde,” I said.
He didn’t shake my hand, and he didn’t turn to face me.
“Are you bringing any news?” he simply asked.
I exhaled. This didn’t feel good. I so wanted to help them find closure, and to know what happened to their precious daughter. But I had gotten nowhere still. I needed more information.
“Not yet, but I can assure you we’re working very hard on—”
He lifted his hand to stop me. “Spare me your reassurances. We want to see results. Our daughter was brutally taken from us, and we want to see justice done. Is that too much to ask?”
I shook my head. “Of course not. That’s why I am here. I was wondering if Cassandra had any more friends that she would hang out with?”
“She was with her track team a lot,” the mother answered softly. “They had practice every morning and meets sometimes in the afternoon. They would also go to competitions together on the weekends, sometimes out of the area.”
“Could you give me a few names of her closest friends on the team perhaps?” I asked.
The mother nodded. She wrote three names down on a Post-it note then handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I said. “There was another thing.”
“Yes?” Mrs. Perez said.
“The girl who Cassandra was supposed to babysit on the night she was murdered. How well do you know her and the mother?”
Mrs. Perez looked confused. “I have never met them. Like I said, it was Pete who got her that job.”
“Do you know her well?” I asked Mr. Perez.
The father turned around and looked at me, his eyes heavy with sorrow. He shook his head. “She lives down the street, by the pond. To be honest none of us have ever seen the child, but I spoke to the mom, and she said she was looking for a babysitter and I suggested Cassandra. I asked her to go over there and talk to the woman and that’s how she got the job.”
“Why are you asking about her?” Mrs. Perez said. “Do you think this woman might have hurt our daughter?”
“I don’t know who did hurt Cassandra, but I need to look into all possibilities, as you probably understand.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t really know them at all,” Mrs. Perez said.
“Okay,” I said. “I will let you know if anything new comes up.”
I had turned to walk away, when Pete Perez stopped me before I could leave.
“Please, find who did this to her,” he pleaded softly, his voice full of grief. I believed he was heartbroken.
I nodded and stepped out into the night, determined to bring closure to this devastated family and, as if on cue, Dr. Phillips called me in for the autopsy.
I had no idea what he was going to tell me, but I spent the drive to the medical examiner’s office thinking about all the leads that had already reached dead ends. We interviewed the locals in the surrounding areas, people walking their dogs in the street nearby or driving by the pond, just to hear if they had seen anything, in regard to Cassandra. But no one had. People were very nice and helpful, and most had heard about the finding of Cassandra’s body and were terrified by it. Yet no one had seen her later than when her mother sent her off for her babysitting job.
I had a few tips from locals that I had Tom and Scott follow up on. They said they saw Cassandra on her bike around town, but that was on the day before she was killed.
There was something odd about the fact that Emma disappeared on the same day Cassandra died, and that they lived on the same street. She was her babysitter, and the Perezes had told me that she was supposed to have taken care of Emma on the evening of the day that the little girl disappeared.
I had combed through every record I could find, trying to find any evidence that might prove that Emma actually existed. But none of the neighbors had ever seen her, and that became a puzzle to me. Even the Perezes said they had never actually seen the child. How was that even possible? The yard was closed in and surrounded by very high bushes, but the girl must have left the house every now and then, right? Going to the park and playground? Someone had to have seen her. According to her mother, she had never even been to the doctor, which I found very strange. When my children were that age, I ran to the doctor once a week, or so it felt. They were sick all the time.
“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.
