“I’ll let you know if we find any leads,” Ryan says dismissively. The trip back has concluded.

“Sounds good.” With a tug on my suitcase and gratitude for the lift, I return to the parking lot.

I am not sure what I can do, other than read up on other missing persons cases. Runaway cases. Maybe something will resonate. Maybe I’ll see something we haven’t looked into that helped solve another case.

As I approach my car, I do a double take. My rinky-dink tire is no more. A brand-new Michelin tire holds up my bug.

I find Ryan strapping a cover over his helicopter with help from the man he waved to earlier.

“Did you have my tire replaced?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“You needed a new tire.”

“But…” I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I’m going to insist on getting my old tire back. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nada. You’re on our team. We take care of our own.” He ducks below the back rotor and steps close. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m, ah…meeting a friend out. I have to pick up my dog. Take him for a long walk. Check in on campus. Then later, go out.” I’m stumped on his fixing my bloody tire and therefore a mumbling mess vomiting out unnecessary minutiae.

“Have a good night. I’ll let you know if we pick up any leads.”

He disappears to the far side of the helicopter. I back away, my brain mush. The growly man fixed my tire.

“Thank you.” The weak expression isn’t quite enough.

CHAPTER 11

112 Hours Missing

Ryan

Pre-dawn stillness reigns over Haley Street. The bright yellow bungalow sits at the corner of an intersection with no parking allowed along the front and side, so I drive into the narrow driveway and park. On this spring morning, sunrise won’t occur for another hour, but there are traces of gold along the horizon to the east.

Locating Alex’s address had been easy. One online search easily accomplished the task. I searched out of curiosity, looking to see how protective of her privacy she is. The answer had been not at all. She set her Instagram and Facebook as public accounts. She is trusting, and the bright yellow painted brick of her bungalow corroborates my conclusion. The young professor studies the darkest side of human nature and yet maintains a sunny outlook. Having fought in battles and witnessed men blown to shreds, I both admire that ability in her and wonder over her naivety.

With practiced ease, I stack one coffee cup on top of the other and tap lightly on her front door. She said she wakes early, but knocking shortly after six on a Saturday morning constitutes a gamble. A shrill, loud bark erupts.

She doesn’t ask who is at the door before swinging it open. Annoyance at her lack of situational awareness surfaces, and I push past Alex into her den. She holds a coffee mug in her hand, so I keep my extra.