Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Take Katie Bryne’s abduction and eventual extraction as a prime example. I told myself repeatedly that Katie wasn’t Cameron, but I never believed it until she walked straight back into the arms of the man who had purchased her when she was barely eighteen.
While shaking my head in disbelief, I shift my attention back to stacking the files into a soft leather briefcase. The lead agent on this case kept thorough and meticulous records. Her notes are detailed and demonstrate her top-notch investigative skills. But this case feels different, more personal. It feels like I am finally close to bringing Cameron home, but also about to lose her entirely—like that makes any fucking sense.
After shaking hands with the pilot, I step off the plane and make my way through the airport of a small coastal community not far from San Diego. The salty air that hits me when I wave down a cab is refreshing and rejuvenating—unlike the stale air that greets me upon arriving at the headquarters for this region of the bureau.
The town is quaint, with colorful beachfront houses and a laid-back atmosphere, but HQ is full of overworked employees.
I guess that’s expected. The agents assigned here aren’t on vacation.
I flash my badge at the receptionist, who is making gaga eyes at me, before I veer my steps toward a door marked Supervisor. I rarely “play,” but on the odd occasion years ago, it is never close enough to home to smell the putrid scent of guilt when I can’t hold back an itch for companionship a moment more.
While talking on the phone, Special Supervisory Agent Markwell gestures for me to come in. After dumping my bag at the door, I do as asked. Markwell’s office is modest, blending with the blandness of the rest of the building, but it teems with a sense of urgency. Multiple case files are stacked on his bulky desk, and the top three relate to my deployment to his division.
That is a clear sign he wants this case off his desk as fast as I desire to find Cameron.
Once his call ends, I introduce myself. “Special Supervisory Agent Grayson Rogers. I’m here to relieve Agent…” My words fade when I recall how the files Alex delivered to the jet didn’t have an agent’s name attached to them. They were blank, much like the many reports I’ve lodged about Cameron’s case over the last fourteen years.
Against my better judgment, I say, “I am here regarding case file number 152-SD-54371.”
Not looking up, Markwell continues rifling through papers while saying, “They called earlier to announce you were coming.” After jotting down an address on a Post-it note, he hands it to me with a set of keys. “I had new keys cut for you. If she’s already called in a locksmith, you’re on your own.” Now he looks up. “You’ll find all the files you need at that address”—he eyes the Post-it note—“if you’re lucky, she may allow you to view them.”
When my eyes stray to the files stacked on his desk, confused, he huffs out a breathy chuckle. “That’s the information she wants me to think she’s unearthed on this assignment. They are useless, but you can have them if you want them.”
I gather up the files, adding to his breathlessness.
After dipping my chin, I leave his office, happy our meeting was brief. Some supervisory agents drone on for hours. I will never become one of them.
Partway out, Markwell dampens my eagerness with a gruff tone. “Please be discreet with your investigations. Waters are murky, and we don’t need more mud sullying the rivers.”
I want to say killers don’t deserve diplomacy, but I stay quiet because Alex went out on a limb to assign me this case.
The apartment block Markwell jotted down is a short drive from headquarters. It is nestled right on the beach. While the sound of waves meeting the shore is calming, my irritation prevents me from fully appreciating it.
Alex was right when he said it shouldn’t matter where these women were housed and killed. They’re American citizens. That should make them our utmost priority.
As I near the resort-like building, my eyes scan the surrounding structures, seeking any signs of trouble. It appears postcard perfect. Quiet and sleepy, yet also a replica of a town where secrets go to die.
Small coastal communities are the top pick, alongside mountain ranges, when an agent needs to re-home someone who was once a witness. I’ve used towns like this many times during my career.
I check that I have the correct apartment number before stuffing a new key into the third-floor apartment’s door and twisting it.
The key doesn’t budge the locking mechanism, so I remove it, cover the peephole with my thumb, and then knock. My face is generally recognizable, though more so among fellow agents. I am a younger version of my father, and regretfully, now just as anal.