Go to page:

Text Size:

“And there hasn’t been a ping since it was shut off here?” Paige asks.

“Not according to Nina,” I respond.

“And if Nina says there are no more digital breadcrumbs, there are no more digital breadcrumbs to be found,” Astra says.

“She couldn’t have just vanished into thin air,” Paige says.

I look around, studying the street. I’m pretty sure the alley had to have played a role in any potential abduction since, if Ashley was indeed taken by somebody, I doubt they would have done it in front of the large plate-glass windows of the shops on either side. If she was taken, it would have been brazen enough in broad daylight, but snatching her in front of those windows would have taken it from brazen to reckless. And nothing about this feels reckless to me. Everything feels scripted, carefully orchestrated, and worst of all, methodical.

As I study the surrounding street, I spot what I’ve been hoping we’d see. Beneath the awnings of the shops, I see security cameras discreetly tucked away. The camera just outside of the dress shop on our right isn’t pointed at the mouth of the alley. But the bougie-looking handbag shop on our left has a camera just under the awning at an angle that catches the front door but also might have a view of the mouth of the alley as well.

“Over here,” I say.

The electronic bell chimes as Astra and Paige follow me into the handbag shop. The decorations and design are minimal, but everything is antiseptically clean. A wide array of handbags that, in my opinion, are hideous, stand on shelves or podiums set at staggered intervals along the shop floor. I don’t have to look at the price tags to know I’m staring at bags that run into the thousands.

“That bag looks like a crab,” I mutter.

“It’s high fashion,” Paige says quietly.

“Well, I think it’s cute,” Astra says.

“As in, you need to be high to carry that,” Paige finishes.

As they share a giggle, a tall, willowy blonde steps out of the back, and the moment she sees us, I can see her assessing us. Her hair is perfect, her makeup is immaculate, and the outfit she’s wearing probably cost more than everything hanging in my closet at home. The smile on her perfectly painted lips slips as she takes in our decidedly not-designer pantsuits and lack of high-end fashion accessories and decides we don’t have the sort of money required to shop here.

“May I help you?” she asks with barely disguised disdain.

I flash her my badge. “Chief Wilder. This SSA Russo and Special Agent Boyle,” I say. “Are you the manager here?”

An expression of mild concern flits across the woman’s otherwise icy features, but it quickly melts away, and a look of understanding dawns upon her face. Obviously, our status as civil servants and the federal paycheck that comes with it explains why three very unfashionably dressed women are darkening her doorstep. She draws herself up to her full five-eleven stature, her gaze growing even frostier.

“I’m Deza; this is my shop,” she says. “What can I do for you?”

“Great. We’re investigating a possible abduction, and we noticed the camera under the awning out there,” I say. “I was hoping we could get a look at the footage—”

“Do you have a warrant?” she asks.

“No. No, we don’t,” I admit. “But we’re talking about the abduction of a child, and I was hoping I could convince you to help us because it’s the right thing to do.”

Deza folds her arms over her chest, her posture defensive, and her expression stony and cold. She looks less interested in doing the right thing than she is in running us out of her shop. She looks at us as if our mere presence in her shop devalues her goods. Astra, the only one of the three of us who can match Deza’s modelesque good looks and impeccable sense of fashion, steps forward and fixes her with a gaze just as cool as hers.

“Listen, Deza,” Astra starts, her tone sweet yet firm. “We don’t care about your bags. We don’t care about your cute little accessories. They are cute, though. We don’t care about your bottom line or your business or your reputation. What we want are those—” she jerks a thumb toward the cameras—“to take a look at the alley. Because if we have to come back with a big team, and a warrant, just to look at your cameras… I can’t imagine what that would do for foot traffic.”

The woman’s expression turns sour, but Astra’s words hit her where they hurt. She glares at Astra and says nothing for a long moment, but then finally waves her hand.

“Fine,” she says. “Follow me.”

I give Astra a grateful nod. “Hang out here and see if you find something you like. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Oh, are you buying? I was thinking of this little number…”

“Not on your life.”

Chuckling to myself, I follow Deza through the back of the shop and into a small office that’s as clean, tidy, and austere as the rest of the shop. She sits down at her desk and turns the monitor to me.

“What is the footage you need?” she asks, sounding somewhat defeated.

I check the data Nina had given to me from Ashley’s phone and relay that to Deza. She types it in, and a moment later, I’m watching footage of a man dressed in black from head to toe stepping out of the alley we were just standing in. He’s wearing a yellow mask—it’s round and looks like a happy face emoji under his black hoodie, and for some reason, that detail chills me to the bone.

The smiley-face man grabs at Ashley, but she throws herself out of his reach and falls hard on the pavement. The man closes on her and reaches for her again, but the girl scrambles to her feet and looks as if she’s about to turn and run. I’m silently telling her to run. To get away. But I know I’m watching a movie I already know the ending to. If Ashley had been able to escape, I wouldn’t be standing here watching it all happening to her right now.

“My God,” Deza whispers. “I can’t believe this happened just outside. I had no idea…”

Her voice tapers off as Smiley-Face pulls something out of his pocket, and I realize instantly that it’s a Taser. Ashley’s body instantly locks up as he sends a charge through her, and she falls to the ground again. I watch in horror as he casually steps forward, picks her up, and slings the girl’s limp body over his shoulder like a sack of laundry. A second later, he disappears back into the alley. And several seconds after that, a black panel van drives out of the alley, turns left, and is gone from view.

“I need a copy of this, Deza. Please,” I say.

“Who is she?” the woman asks breathlessly.

“Somebody who needs our help. Now.”