I open the Uber app to request a car. The car is two minutes away. I scan my texts as I stroll to the gated entrance.

Erik: Call me.

A flash of hope my techie partner at Arrow found something effectively pulls me up like a safety line. I can’t do anything more for my sister. But I can find my friend’s daughter.

Erik, the head of our IT team, spearheads the surveillance team. He lives up north in Napa. Our team lives in locations all over the world. Having a workforce in time zones around the globe gives us an advantage when we need work completed around the clock.

“Hey,” he says. Instrumental jazz music plays in the background.

“What’s up?”

“Wanted you to know we’ve searched her cloud-based messages and emails. Didn’t find anything about running away. For that matter, she sounds like a well-adjusted, happy kid. When we receive her hardware, we’ll see if she uses an app called SnapChat.”

“Erik. I’m not ancient. I’ve heard of it.”

“Then you know we won’t have access to those conversations. So far, we’ve got nothing.”

“Anything on the security cams?”

“The security company hasn’t given us access yet.”

“Seriously?”

“He’s using a crap company with hourly IT. Said we’d have access tomorrow.” Unbelievable. “Given the situation, we hacked in and are accessing the feeds that are stored on the server.”

Our call ends as I climb into the back seat of a gray Chevy Impala. I lean back and consider the layout of the house. If someone wanted to break in, the public beach would be the easiest access. That would be the same if a person wanted to sneak out. A visual of the side path comes to mind. The gate with a latch. And past the gate, the racks of surfboards and paddleboards, then a higher gate with a lock on the inside.

Surfboards and paddleboards. Does his daughter surf? Could she have gone out on her own to surf after dinner?

CHAPTER 7

26 Hours Missing

Alex

The flower-patterned file folder requires a tug to loosen it from the back. It bulges open, the contents stouter than the school papers in the neatly labeled folders, titled by subject. Printed photos overfill the folder.

A teen having printed photos qualifies as an enigma. I can’t remember the last time I printed my photos. I think I’ve only done it from sites that allow me to create my own holiday cards or for frames. I sit back against the wall, legs out before me.

The first photo is of Cassandra holding a baby bundled in a pink blanket. Cassandra’s hair is uncharacteristically a mess, and her skin is pale, but she’s wearing a tender smile. An expression of wonder brightens her face. The second photo is of Cassandra and Jack pushing a red stroller down a sidewalk. They both look so young. His hand overlaps hers on the stroller, but they are smiling for the camera. And then it hits me. I think my dad took that photo. I remember that day.