Page 52 of Girl Lost
The thought pulsed through her again. Trinity must be her daughter.
Their daughter.
She glanced at Corbin. Scrutinized his features for microexpressions correlated with an emotional response. Eyes wide. Brow raised. He was hearing this news for the first time.
He asked, “Why’s Stryker letting her run wild? She’s a bad example for the rest of the kids in the program.”
“My guess?” Harlee hesitated. “He feels like her oxy addiction is his fault.”
Corbin’s and Luna’s eyes met, a silent question passing between them.
“Why would he think that?” Corbin asked.
“I sorta overheard them arguing a few weeks back. Trinity was yelling, saying it was his fault she was hooked.”
“His fault? How?” She couldn’t imagine Stryker ever leading anyone to use drugs. Certainly not a kid.
“I didn’t catch the whole conversation,” Harlee said. “But apparently he convinced her to have the heart transplant when she didn’t want it. She was in a bad place after losing her parents. Had some kind of death wish. The surgery led to the pain meds, and well ...”
“Pain meds,” Corbin said. “I’ve seen it a thousand times. People can become addicted in as little as five days.”
Five days. That’s all it took for those pills to grab hold. No wonder Jordan and the others had called her that name. The thing was, it might not be her fault. “So the heart transplant led to the pain meds?” Luna asked.
“That’s what I gather,” Harlee said. “I tried to get close to Trinity when she first came to the program. Thought maybe she needed another woman to talk to. But she kept everyone at a distance.”
Luna’s stomach knotted. The thought of Trinity isolating herself, battling grief and addiction with no support system, broke something inside her. But she couldn’t say that. Couldn’t reveal how personal this felt.
“I reported her missing to the locals,” Harlee said. “She’s a minor, and it’s been over twenty-four hours.”
“Good idea,” Corbin said.
She nodded even though Harlee couldn’t see her. “I think so too.”
Especially if there was someone out there snatching runaways and carving them up for parts. She added, “But you never have to wait twenty-four hours to report a minor.”
“That’s right,” Corbin said. “Don’t let local PD tell you otherwise.”
“Thanks, you guys. I’ll file another report,” Harlee said. “I’ve already talked to the other students, but it wouldn’t hurt to nudge the local PD again.”
“Any luck finding Steve?” Corbin asked, changing the subject.
“Not yet, but I pulled area footage and I’m running the partial plate I got for the G-Wagon. I’m running biometrics on Mr. Steve. Still searching for a match. And I’m digging into any connections Stryker might have to anyone named Steve. Tell me again why you didn’t arrest that guy for assaulting you?”
“Bigger picture.” Corbin touched his bruised jaw. “He could lead us to bigger players. I’ll file a report and hand his gun over to the locals when I get a chance. Doubt it’s registered to him, but as soon as we know his full name, I want to put surveillance on him.”
“Fine,” Harlee said.
“We have a lead to follow up on, but keep us posted.” Corbin disconnected, then looked at her. “I couldn’t go into everything with Harlee, but it bugs me that Steve mentioned Carlie by name, even though we didn’t.”
“Yeah, I caught that,” she said.
They’d reached the address of the boat shop the witnesses had given them. Luna pointed out a white metal building with a nautical blue roof. The sign above the entrance read “Morales Marine Services.” They pulled into the gravel lot and parked near the entrance.
The place looked deserted. No customers. No cars. Just rows of yachts and sailboats sitting on trailers along the side of the building. Across the street, a nail salon was sandwiched between a surf shop and an upscale thrift boutique.
“Looks like business is good.” She got out of the car and followed Corbin to the front door.
A bell jingled as Corbin pushed the door open and held it for her. She stepped inside and stood in front of a small counter and a windowed wall that separated the customer area from the shop. It was surprisingly clean and well-organized. Gleaming boats filled the shop, their hulls polished to a mirrored shine. Tools hung neatly on pegboards along one wall. Four bay doors lined the opposite wall. The scent of wax and cleaning solution hung in the air. This place was the opposite of the boat graveyard.
