A text from Jack comes through.

Jack Sullivan: FBI offered resources for an additional search.

My hired crew searched every single street in San Diego and the beach, but another sweep wouldn’t hurt, so I responded with a quick “Great.”

Five days in on a missing persons case with no lead, we’ll take every bit of help we can get.

Through our office windows, the morning sky radiates crystal blue sprinkled with scattered fluffy white clouds. Skateboard wheels rolling down the sidewalk, laughter, a squeal, and the hum of music all filter in through the glass, a reminder that, outside, the world at large enjoys a Saturday. From my desk, I can see Alex in a temporary cube. When I approach, she’s reading an article on ghost guns.

Ghost guns is a term used to describe guns built from parts without serial codes. It’s a significant issue. There is no legitimate reason to want a gun without a serial number. No serial number means the gun can’t be traced. Yet around forty thousand ghost guns a year are collected in crimes across that country.

“A little light reading?” I ask.

She rubs her eyes and shrugs. “It’s like a rabbit hole. I search for articles about gun sales and find articles about gun laws, most of which seem to be aimed at protecting gun manufacturers. Nothing, though, with relevance to the case.” She rubs her eyes. “I’m driving myself mad.”

“Let’s head out. Take a break.”

“A break?” she wails, aghast at the notion.

“Yes, a break. We’ve got a full staff working. The FBI response team is still being formed, so we don’t have a contact point. It’s Saturday. Jack has to return from another visit at the SDPD to review the photos we sent him and respond with names. Let’s get outside. Fresh air will do us good.”

“Oh, Trace,” she says, and those eyes close as she tilts her head back. “I need to walk my dog.”

“Well, let’s go.”

“You’re going with me?” she whispers. She glances several cubicles back toward Shiloh. Oh, yes. She’s worried about image. Right.

“I drove you here. I’ll drive you back. We can get lunch. And we can discuss what you’ve learned.” My response is louder than necessary. One or two heads glance our way. No one on Arrow’s staff gives a damn. But I’ll play it Alex’s way.

CHAPTER 15

119 Hours Missing

Ryan

The garish yellow brick on her Craftsman glistens under the California noon sun.

As if reading my mind, Alex says, “I’m going to paint it.”

“I didn’t say anything.” The car door slams, and the house emits a shrill, high-pitched, repetitive bark.

“You didn’t say it, but I could see it. You are quite critical.”

Is she serious?

“I have said nothing critical at all.”

“It’s in your face.” Her index finger circles her own face. Unbelievable. “And your eyes. You are quite negative.”

She opens her arched front door, and Trace bounds out, jumping up and down on her legs, most likely scratching her the same way he scratched me earlier. He trots over to a bush, lifts his leg, then trots back to Alex.