“What we’ve found so far is that Ashley has a secret life that we assume you know nothing about. She uses the pseudonym Shelby Kittridge—”

“I’m sorry, a pseudonym? For what?”

“We don’t know the full extent of this double life just yet, but one thing we have uncovered is that Ashley was part of a sugar baby club. She would meet older men—”

He waves me off, looking aghast, and when he speaks, his tone is equal parts shock and disgust. “I know what sugar babies are, Chief. But you can’t be serious. This has to be some sort of misunderstanding. My daughter would never—”

I give Nina a nod, and although she seems reluctant, she brings the site up on the monitor at the foot of the table and quickly navigates to Ashley’s profile. Barlow stares at it, his eyes moving as he reads his daughter’s words, his face growing paler by the second. He runs a hand over his face, looking like he might be sick. But he quickly collects himself and swallows it all down.

Barlow shakes his head. “I—I don’t understand. She never wanted for anything. She certainly didn’t need money—”

“We don’t believe she was involved with this group for the money, sir,” I say. “We believe it was more a case of Ashley wanting to break free of the constraints of her life and be somebody different… if only for a little while.”

“It makes no sense. She was always happy. She…”

His voice trails off, and he shakes his head. I don’t expect him to grasp the nuances of his daughter’s psychological state or the impact growing up the way she did had on her life. He’s certainly not in a place to understand how being in a fishbowl from such an early age might create a deep-seated resentment and a desperate need to find a way to step out of the role he carved out for her within the context of his life and political aspirations.

Regardless of how close they are as a family, the Senator can’t know what it’s like to be a teenage girl growing up under a microscope the way Ashley’s had to. Barlow signed up for that life when he first ran for office. Ashley didn’t. But she’s had to live with the choices her father made since the day she was born. Barlow wanted that life, so he can’t possibly understand what that’s done to Ashley or her desire to break free from the fishbowl and be her own person.

Barlow lets out a deep, quavering breath, and his brow furrows as he seems to be trying to put his emotions aside and think about the situation.

“So, are you saying that one of these men who belong to this—club—took my daughter?”

“We’re not saying anything at this moment, Senator. Right now, we’re not making any assumptions. This is just one avenue of investigation we’re pursuing,” Astra tells him.

“Was there somebody specific she was seeing through this club, Chief?” Barlow presses.

“As SSA Russo said, we’re pursuing a number of leads right now. We don’t have anybody specific in our crosshairs at the moment. It’s still a little too early for us to say,” I tell him.

Barlow looks at me closely, his face tight and the corners of his mouth curled down. He’s not easy to read. The Senator is good at keeping his thoughts and emotions off his face which, I suppose, is a byproduct of his job. Or perhaps it’s a requirement.

“I feel like you’re not telling me the whole story, Chief,” he says.

“Senator, we’ve updated you on everything we can,” I explain. “As I’ve told you, we are still very early into running down some leads that may or may not yield results. At the moment, we don’t have anything substantive to share with you, but I give you my word that we will keep you in the loop when we find something solid.”

He looks down as his resolve crumbles and his face clouds over with pain and fear. His shoulders shake as he fights off the waves of emotion that are crashing down over him. Barlow takes a minute to compose himself again, then raises his head again.

“I’m sorry. This is just… difficult,” he says quietly.

“I understand, Senator. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now,” I tell him. “But it’s important that you let us do our jobs. We’re going to do everything we can to bring Ashley back to you. You just need to trust us.”

He looks lost. His face is painted with grief, and he looks like he’s already resigned himself to losing his daughter. I’d love to be able to tell him everything is going to be fine—that he has nothing to worry about. I’d love to be able to ease his mind and bring him comfort in some way. But there are no guarantees, and given the facts before us right now, I can’t promise there is going to be a happy ending here. And I refuse to give him false hope.

“I don’t know what to do with myself, Chief,” he says.

“The best thing you can do right now is go about your day as normally as you can. I know it sounds impossible, but if you want to keep people from asking questions, you have to do your best to act like nothing is amiss,” I tell him. “You need to let us do our thing, and you really, really need to stay away from this location. We can’t have you seen coming in here.”

He nods numbly. “I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m going out of my mind.”

“I understand. But I swear that we are doing our very best.”

“I know you are.”

He gets to his feet, his shoulders slumped, looking as scared and defeated as he sounds. Barlow puts the ball cap back on his head and pulls the bill down low, trying to obscure his face the best he can, which isn’t very well.

“I’ll keep you in the loop, Senator,” I say. “I promise.”

He studies me for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is soft, barely more than a whisper. “You don’t think you’re going to find her, do you?”

“We’re not going to stop trying.”

Barlow pauses as a grief-stricken expression crosses his face. “Thank you, Chief. Thank you all for working as hard as I know you are to bring my baby home.”

We watch him shuffle out of the house, and when the door closes, I turn to the others and blow out a long, frustrated breath. I don’t think he meant to do it, but one of the byproducts of Barlow’s unexpected visit was to put a heavier burden on our shoulders than we were already lugging around. Though it was unlikely intended, Barlow’s presence only adds to the pressure we’re already feeling, and I can’t help but feel like there is a lot riding on this case.

In terms of my career, maybe everything.

“Okay, let’s get back to work. Paige, Nina, keep digging into Bauer and get with Rick to see if you can identify anybody else Ashley was talking to through the website,” I say. “Astra, let’s go have a chat with Mr. Richter.”

Hempstead Petroleum, K Street District; Washington, DC

Nestled among the busy thoroughfares in our nation’s capital is K Street, which is more or less, the center of the lobbying world. K Street is also replete with law offices, think tanks, and policy advisement groups, but it has become synonymous with the lobbying firms that fill the area. Astra and I find our way to a tall office building that houses a host of different special interest groups that do business up on Capitol Hill.

We walk into the ground floor of the building and thread our way through the crowd of well-heeled, self-important people who are bustling by on whatever business has them scurrying about. Astra leads me over to an electronic directory mounted to the marble wall on our right. We scan the names of the businesses located in the building.

“Fourth floor,” Astra says.

“Got it.”

We head for the elevators and have to wait a moment before forcing our way into the crowded car. Astra and I are forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with people in designer suits, all of them looking at us in our decidedly not-designer suits like we just wandered in out of a homeless shelter. Image is everything in this town. Some try to deny it, but it’s just as important in the Beltway as it is in Hollywood. The car stops on the fourth floor, and it chimes as the doors slide open. Astra and I quickly extricate ourselves from the mass of humanity and step into the lobby of the Stallworth Group, which serves as the lobbying and legislative arm of Hempstead Petroleum.

The offices are sleek and modern with lots of smoked glass and chrome all around. The tile flooring beneath our feet is black and white, and the white walls are covered with artistic photos depicting oil rigs taken from what I assume are Heampstead’s drilling sites around the world. A smartly dressed, professional-looking blonde woman sitting at a long desk set across from the elevators looks up as we cross the floor and offers us a well-practiced smile that doesn’t come close to reaching her eyes.

“Good afternoon,” she says. “How may I help you?”

“We need to speak with Archibald Richter, please,” I say as we badge her.

Her blue eyes widen slightly, and an expression of concern flits across her face, but she quickly reins it in and eyes us with curiosity instead.

“I’m sorry, what’s this about?” the receptionist asks.

“We just need to speak with him,” I say. “Where can we find him?”

“I’m afraid he’s tied up at the moment.”