“And that’s precisely why discretion has been requested. I’ll send everything for class over in a bit. And thank you! You’re the bees knees, love!”

I hang up and rush to finish packing. I shouldn’t be staying more than one night, but I thumb through my clothes, double-checking I’ve brought everything, then move on to setting out Trace’s food and snacks.

Timothy’s question about publicity nags at me. He’s right. In a missing persons case, time is of the essence. Circulating photos can bring lost ones home quickly. Even if she willfully ran away, seeing her photo everywhere might make her think twice about staying gone. It might dawn on her that her father loves her, even if he’s an overbearing mongrel. Prohibiting dating feels positively prehistoric.

“He loves you. And he’s never been a parent before. Not really. He’s figuring it out. Be patient.” That’s what I’d told Sophia more than once. How bad did things get? Why didn’t she call?

As I turn out of my drive, my phone rings. A close-up of Sloane’s smiling face covers the screen. She’s a fellow assistant professor at UCSB and my closest friend Stateside. I set the phone down in the passenger seat, camera pointed up, and answer.

“Hey, can’t talk long. I need to use my phone for directions. What’s up?”

“Timothy just told me you got a consulting gig. That’s awesome! And it’s with Arrow Security?”

“Is Timothy telling everyone?”

“Probably. This is so cool. And you probably want it getting out, don’t you? You become a high-profile police consultant and it’s a surefire way to get you a professorship. Whereas I’ve got to research and get published.”

“I still need to get published.” But her glee has me smiling and gets my excitement kernels popping. Sloane’s right. Consulting on real-world cases will be a huge boon.

“Did you get to meet any of the military guys?”

“I met the owner, Ryan Wolfgang.” His name rolls off my tongue. It’s a lovely name.

“He’s one of the former SEALs working there.” Sloane squeals, and I roll my eyes. “Is he as hot in person as on the news?”

“I didn’t see him on the news.” I refrain from admitting that he’s right fit. Truly gobsmackingly gorgeous.

“You’re never in the psych faculty break room. Sherman insists on keeping the TV on the local station. But fuck, he’s hot. He’s got, like, a Superman vibe. Not the original, but one of the more recent ones.” Given I have seen none of the Superman films, I can’t contribute to that line of conversation. I could offer that he’s built like Thor, but there’s no need to feed Sloane’s madness.

“He’s taller than I am.”

At six foot one, it’s noteworthy when I meet someone who dwarfs me. Growing up, I’d been the tallest of all my friends. My ancestry includes both Swedes and Russians…and somewhere back there, some mighty tall people. In a feat of genetics, I stand taller than my father by one inch. Nicknames growing up included gazelle, heron, and giraffe. Here in the States, everyone assumes I play basketball.