Page 50 of Concealed

“A man hot on the trail. Me, I’m happy to be heading home to the couch at the end of my shift and trying to keep this wife happy.”

“I understand that, man, believe me.”

We spend most of our shift breaking up rowdy bar fights, ticketing speeders, and responding to domestic disturbances.

But it’s on our way back to the station when, like a magnetic force field, my eyes are drawn down a darkened alley between two bars.

At first, it just looks like a couple arguing, albeit in a strange location. But then the man roughly grabs his female companion and throws her so hard that her neck snaps backward, connecting with the brick wall behind her.

She immediately makes me think of Rebecca.

When the squad car comes to a screeching halt, Wallace is as surprised as the couple who freeze like deer in the headlights.

“What? What did I miss?” Wallace demands.

But I don’t bother answering before I’m darting down the alley, the familiar thrum of adrenaline guiding my actions.

“What seems to be the problem?” I ask.

The girl is younger than I thought at first glance, and she keeps her gaze locked on the pavement. The punk holding her arm is mean-mugging me, but after you’ve faced down the barrel of guns, a two-bit pimp – because that’s exactly the vibe I’m getting – is nothing.

“There’s no problem,” he says. “So, you can move along,officer.”

He might as well have called me a motherfucker with all the disgust dripping from his voice.

“Get your hands off her,” I warn.

“We’re going home,” he says.

I direct my attention to her. “Miss? Can I talk to you for a moment, please? Alone?”

If she doesn’t cooperate, there isn’t a hell of a lot that I can do, not that will stick anyway.

His grip tightens on her bicep, and I reach out, my fingers digging into the pressure points on his wrist to make him release her.

Wallace is behind me now and asking to see some ID while I direct the girl toward the cruiser, hoping she doesn’t bolt.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice soft.

It’s raining, which gives me the perfect excuse to invite her to sit in the passenger seat beside me. Her gaze darts around wildly, like she’s getting ready to run, but when her eyes scan the alley we just left, she gets into the squad car instead.

“Is there anything you want to tell me about your friend?” I ask gently. “You’re not going to get in trouble, I promise.”

“He’s not my friend,” she whispers.

“What’s your name?”

“Carly.”

“If you make a police report, Carly, he won’t be able to hurt you anymore.”

When she glances up, her soulful brown eyes are so haunted. It’s like she’s lived one hundred lifetimes even though she can’t be older than sixteen.

“That’s not true,” she says. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. My fate is sealed. But my friend… Her name is Anna Thompson… She’s missing and maybe… Maybe she’s not dead yet, and maybe you can help her. Most cops won’t believe me or care, but sheismissing. And he… I know he did it. Maybe you’re different? Maybe you care?”

Awareness courses along my spine at the mention of another missing girl.

“How long has she been gone?” I ask.

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