Page 6 of Another Girl Lost

“Very possible,” Dawson said.

“Red flags had to have popped up when Scarlett vanished,” Larsen said.

“Her mother didn’t report her missing until August 2, 2014.”

Larsen shook her head. “This case clearly stuck with you.”

“It’s not an easy one to forget.”

When the uniformed officer had opened the van door and they found Scarlett Crosby crumpled on the metal floor, he realized howmuch he’d fucked up months earlier. Could he have saved Scarlett Crosby sooner if he’d taken a few more moments when he’d interviewed Tanner? If he’d been sharper, smarter, more tuned in to Tanner, he’d have learned of his farmhouse on the Virginia–North Carolina line or that Tanner had been seen flirting with Scarlett, who lived across from where Dawson had interviewed him. Maybe, if he’d kept digging, he could have saved both Sandra and Scarlett.

Dawson stood silent, wrestling with the weight of failure. Add another check to the Loss column.

Chapter Three

SCARLETT

Thursday, July 11, 2024

5:30 a.m.

Standing in the center of my warehouse studio, I stared at the portrait of the young girl. The painting portrayed her wide brown eyes rippling with worry. Coffee-colored hair framed a round face, and full lips were slightly parted, as if she’d been caught midsentence. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and her cheeks.

I set my brush down and wiped my hands on a rag already smeared with a mosaic of blacks, reds, whites, and greens. Stepping back, I locked gazes with those painted eyes, wondering what it was I’d missed. Della.

Why didn’t Della’s gaze align with my memories of her? I’d painted fifty-five versions of Della, but I never quite got the eyes right.

“Della,” I whispered, “what am I missing?”

When I looked at her face, I saw kindness and sadness intertwined with a feral need to survive. I also saw my shame, terror, anger, friendship, and sometimes love. So many emotions tangled into one face that had clung to me for a decade.

Della had lured me toward Tanner Reed’s van a decade ago. Her smile had drawn me close enough so he could grab me. After he’dclamped his hand over my mouth and dragged me into the van, she’d closed the sliding door and held me down while he jabbed a needle in my arm. Immediately, my vision blurred. I’d focused only on her face as panic scraped under my skin.

Over the years the details of Tanner had faded. His expectant look when he entered my cell, the sound of his whispered words as he pushed inside me, the smell of his stale skin, and the sting of a calloused palm slapping my face. All those horrors should’ve been permanently welded to him alone, but I could barely remember him now. All my memories had shifted to Della, his helper and my sometime cellmate, sometime friend. For a decade, she’d stalked my nightmares and lurked in my memories. She was the face of old traumas.

“Fuck you, Della.”

The alarm on my phone rang. I drew in a breath, pushing through a wave of grief, and slowly turned from the painting. I cleaned my brushes, washed my hands, and changed into a clean black T-shirt, jeans, and boots. I grabbed my bag of paints and brushes and opened the back door to the alley where my truck was parked. After loading my supplies in the back, I climbed behind the wheel. Minutes later, I was on the road.

This early in the morning, the drive to the youth-recreation shelter took less than ten minutes. The facility didn’t open until nine, but the security guard was expecting me, and he would let me in the side door.

I parked in the lot near the entrance, rose out of the truck, and shouldered my art bag. I never parked too close to other cars or any collection of trees. I liked a wide field of vision when I exited my vehicle. The other cars were empty.

Drawing in a breath, I locked my truck and walked toward the recreation center’s metal doors. The morning air was already warm, and the humidity added weight that would grow oppressive when the day heated. Weather reports said low nineties today. I wasn’t in love with the warm weather. My warehouse had fans and wasn’t air-conditioned,but no matter what, I never opened a window. Give me snow, ice, and closed windows.

I crossed the lot to the side door and rang the bell, and seconds later it opened. The security guard, Simon, a midsize man with a round belly, salt-and-pepper hair, and a thick mustache, smiled. He’d worked police dispatch for most of his career but last year took early retirement. This part-time security job at the community center wouldn’t make him rich, but as he said, it got him out of the house and gave him a place to be. 24-7 with the wife was too much for them both, he often joked.

The heat appeared to be getting to his knee, which had been scoped last winter. He wasn’t ready to go under the knife, he’d said at least a dozen times.

“Scarlett. You’re early today,” he said.

I grinned, scooting past him into the air-conditioned building. “I need to finish the mural. Reception is tonight, and I want to make sure the paint is at least almost dry.”

“Been climbing lately?” The familiarity in his tone was amusing and annoying. He thought we knew each other because I listened as he talked about his life. Though he’d shared most of his personal details, I’d revealed scant few. I had a collection of five I distributed. Born and raised in Norfolk. Artist. Rock climber. Astrology sign Aries. Played guitar badly.

Rotating between the five facts satisfied most people. Enough to create the illusion of a bond but not enough to invite more conversation. “Every chance I get. Are the rec room doors unlocked?”

“They are. And the first class isn’t until nine a.m. Summer school reading. You’ve about three hours.”

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