“Sometimes.” I let his hand go. “You can call me Ryan. Or Wolf if you prefer.” I turn to the woman at his side and offer her my hand. “And you are?”

“This is Dr. Rolfe,” Jack answers for her. Her handshake is unexpectedly firm, and she maintains eye contact.

“You can call me Alex.” Her hand remains in mine a beat too long as my gaze begins to drift over a borderline too-skinny figure swallowed by ill-fitting clothes. She swallows nervously. I release her hand and redirect.

“Shall we meet in the conference room?”

Jack and Dr. Rolfe pause at the end of the hallway, taking in the cavern of desks and monitors. Offices line the perimeter of the open cubicle area. Open doors offer views of office desks and windows with bright blue Santa Barbara sky. The far glass wall opens into a conference room with a long table and a window with a view over buildings. Off to the horizon, between buildings, glimpses of the Pacific Ocean hint at the proximity of the beach.

“Just this way,” I direct. “Can I get you any coffee or something to drink?” They both decline, and I close the door. “Tell me, how can I help you?”

Dr. Rolfe pulls out a notebook and a pen. She rolls her chair and situates it a foot away from Jack’s chair, angled so she can observe us both. Chew marks mar the end of her plastic pen. Her long, thin fingers are bare. Definitely not the wife.

Sullivan smooths his tie and leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. Under the fluorescent lighting and in this proximity, deep wrinkles around the corner of his eyes show, as does a hint of red around the whites.

“Can anyone hear us?” he asks me.

“No. This room is soundproof.” Dr. Rolfe scans the corners of the room. There are visible camera lenses in the corners beneath black glass globes. “No cameras are running. Nothing is being recorded.”

Jack gazes down at his clasped hands. He raises his gaze, and I am met with a mask of professionalism.

“My daughter, Sophia, is missing. She’s only fifteen. Will you help me find her?”

“Have you been to the police?”

“Last night. The officer on duty said most missing persons are found within twenty-four hours. They suspect it’s a misunderstanding or a runaway case.” Jack’s pasty skin, tired eyes, and the fact he flew to me say he’s not placing any weight on a simple misunderstanding.

“How long has she been missing?”

“Since yesterday evening.”

“Do you think she ran away?”

“Maybe.” His shoulders hunch inward. The youthful pride I remember is absent. Sadness and desperation are taking root. “When I asked around, Arrow Security came up multiple times.”

“That’s good to hear. But missing persons isn’t our specialty.” Alex’s pen pauses against the paper.

“But kidnapping and ransom are.” Jack stares me down. Direct, open, forthright. Qualities I remember from our Naval Academy days. Back then, he seemed older than his age. And that holds true today.