Page 1 of Another Girl Lost

Chapter One

DETECTIVEKEVINDAWSON

Saturday, July 20, 2024

Norfolk, Virginia

11:00 a.m.

Fear is a shape-shifter.

It manifests in dozens of different ways. Loud shrieks, righteous wails, angry denials, moans, nervous tics, tapping feet, even nail biting. Detective Kevin Dawson had seen all incarnations in his fifteen years on the force.

He’d also crossed paths with the rare ones who didn’t show any signs of anxiety. They barricaded themselves behind an oppressive, icy silence that was difficult to penetrate. Discovering their secrets was always a challenge.

The woman sitting across the interview table from him now was one of the unusual ones. A rare breed. Scarlett Crosby had tucked herself under layers of a smooth, nonresponsive facade. Nonplussed—bored, even.

He’d yet to get under her skin, but she’d burrowed deep under his. Hours ago, he’d been pissed when he tightened the cuffs around herthin wrists, constricting the links until tension rippled through her body.

Scarlett Crosby had likely killed one woman and had been caught trying to murder another. She’d viciously attacked the arresting officer, and now Dawson, along with everyone else in the department, wanted a pound of her flesh.

Two hours ago, after the paramedics had patched her up, he’d stuck her in this small, windowless interview room. He’d dimmed the lights, knowing she’d stew in shadows and dirty grays. When he’d slammed the door behind him, he’d made a show of flipping the dead bolt. His message was clear:You’re locked in. Trapped. Get used to a cell.

On his orders, she’d received no bathroom breaks, water, or coffee, and no human contact. He wanted her uncomfortable. Given her history, a little physical discomfort in a confined space might penetrate her silence.

Playing fair? Maybe not. But his job was to solve a murder, not coddle Scarlett Crosby.

When he reentered the room, her eyes were closed, and her bandaged hand rested on her thigh. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was meditating at a yoga retreat.

She wore gray scrubs, courtesy of the forensic officer who’d confiscated her blood-soaked T-shirt, jeans, and shoes. The garments swallowed her thin frame and cast an unhealthy hue on ivory skin stippled with traces of blood. She smelled of her victim’s perfume, the back of the squad car, and the artist’s paint she used daily.

When he flipped on the lights, she didn’t open her eyes or move.

He angled the second chair at a diagonal close to her, the position a deliberate choice to foster a connection between them. No table separating them, they were allies, not enemies.

He sipped coffee as he set a cup of water in front of her. He shouldn’t be the one talking to Scarlett Crosby. His perspective on this case was tainted, but he was the first to admit he had an on-again, off-again relationship with common sense. He wanted, needed, her to talk to him.

When she opened her eyes, there were no signs of gratitude or relief. If anything, annoyance simmered. He prided himself on sizing up suspects, but reading her was tough.

He tugged his jacket, sipped coffee. “How did we get here, Scarlett?” The use ofweand her name was deliberate. Creating-connections, building-bridges kind of thing.

The suggestion thattheywere in this together seemed to amuse her. “I want my lawyer.” Her voice rattled with a slight rasp.

When his investigation began almost two weeks ago, he’d recognized her name immediately. An internet search had unearthed ten-year-old images of a haunted, broken Scarlett staring blankly into a camera. A gash had run down her cheek, and bruises covered her neck and arms. That version of Scarlett had plagued his nightmares for a decade. He’d failed that Scarlett. She’d been the victim of Tanner Reed, who’d held, raped, and tortured her for three months. She’d suffered for those three months because when Dawson had interviewed Tanner weeks before her kidnapping, he’d not seen past the man’s easy explanations and smile. It took three months for the dots to connect in Dawson’s mind, and thanks to some dumb luck, he’d finally saved Scarlett. The world had seen him as her ultimate savior, and he’d been promoted.

This Scarlett sitting here now, the 2.0 version, had physically filled out in the last decade, softening those sharp bones. Her blond hair had thickened and grown glossy, color warmed her skin, and the old terrors radiating from her eyes had vanished.

Now, he believed, her fears hadn’t gone anywhere, but had bonded with anger and embedded in sinew and bone. She’d remade herself into an artist, a businesswoman, and a volunteer who helped at a local recreation center, where she’d just completed a mural. Current publicity and public images captured smiles, but a detectable distance blunted her gaze.

“I’ll call your lawyer soon,” he said.

Scarlett drank her water and dug her thumbnail into the Styrofoam cup. “I’m only talking to Luke Kane, Detective Dawson.”

“It could be a while. I’d hate for you to sit here any longer than necessary.”

The cup creaked as she tightened her fingers. “I was locked in a basement for eighty-eight days, remember? You’ll have to try harder to intimidate me.”

He glanced at his watch, struggling to hide his rising frustration. “Scarlett, let me help you. I want to get this sorted out so you can go home. Talk to me.”

---