The Anjale girl hadn’t spoken with Caitlin since Monday night. She didn’t go into detail, but Mike could tell they’d ended on less than friendly terms. Also, she’d gotten a text from Caitlin on Tuesday at 5:47 PM.

Fuck this town.

Cryptic, but more reply than he’d gotten. Lakshmi gave him another number and name—Mary Lubbers-Gaffney.

When Weird-Last-Name Mary returned his call, she told him Caitlin had cleaned her stuff out of the guesthouse on Tuesday and disappeared without so much as a thank-you note. She also filled in the details regarding Caitlin’s dalliances with Jerry Greenwood and the BPD confrontation.

A quick conversation with Detective Greenwood revealed he also hadn’t heard from Caitlin since Monday, but he did mention pointing her toward Lakshmi.

A full loop. The only off-ramp a text that read Fuck this town. Mike tried to go about the rest of his week, but sleep couldn’t beat his instincts.

Thursday morning, he searched for flights to Indianapolis.

Friday, he landed and rented a car.

That afternoon, he placed a copy of Caitlin’s book in front of the Bloomington Police Department’s desk sergeant and pointed to the photo on the jacket.

“My friend is missing.”

Chapter 62

CHAPTER

62

CAITLIN’S EYES FOUGHT to focus on the mess of pink and white halfway up the nearest wall. Her brain filled in the gaps between the low light and whatever drugs Branford had forced into her system.

Barbie.

Wait, not Barbie, but cursive pink and white letters in Barbie’s trademarked style, abused for vanity art: Paige.

Caitlin had found the missing wall art from Paige Lauffer’s doll room.

She was still restrained, but not in a bed. Straps kept her upright on a metal chair, arms at her sides, knees and feet together, no wiggle room. Her body reported aches and pains, but no violation below the waist. The clothes felt the same as last time, some sort of pink cotton pajamas. Her bare feet touched cold stone, smooth but unpolished.

She sat at a wooden table big enough for two across from an empty chair. Underneath Paige’s Barbie sign, the twin-sized bed she’d woken on earlier waited with neatly applied sheets, also bright pink. The off-white wall looked smooth and slightly reflective. The ghostly tint of fluorescence lit the room from behind. The air felt humid; her skin, sticky.

She looked at the ceiling. Smooth, off-white like the wall, possibly metal. A faint column of air moved against her face from a single darkened light fixture made of round translucent plastic with a one-inch ringed gap around the edge—a bathroom light and fan combo.

To the right, another smooth wall, maybe two feet from the table’s edge. To the left, a cheap plastic shelving unit held a stack of clothing and three unopened Barbie dolls.