Brandon walked to the back of the apartment. The bedroom was dim, with light coming in through slats of the closed miniblinds. Brandon scanned the space, taking in the unmade bed, the scattered shoes, the chair in the corner heaped with clothes. The room smelled faintly of vanilla, and he spied a fat white candle on the nightstand.

He stepped over and opened the drawer. Most people’s nightstands were filled with personal clutter. Vanessa’s was almost empty except for a plastic baggie with a few antacids and an individual blister tab that looked like her allergy medicine.

He turned to the closet, which stood open. Compared to the rest of the apartment, it was surprisingly tidy, with shoes lined up neatly on the floor and hanging clothes sorted by type—shirts, dresses, jeans. Tucked behind the hanging clothes was a black roll-on suitcase.

After checking a few more drawers, Brandon returned to the kitchen to find Antonio standing in front of the refrigerator.

“Looks like she just stocked up,” his partner said. “Fruit, almond milk, Diet Snapple.”

“Any beer or wine?”

“Uh . . . six-pack of Michelob Ultra. Two gone.”

“Detective?” Kate leaned her head in the door. “Vanessa’s neighbor just came home, if you want to talk to her.”

“I got it,” Antonio said. He walked out, leaving Brandon alone in the kitchen.

He stepped over to the sink, which was filled with dirty plates and mugs. Opening the cabinet beneath, he found a half-filled trash can. On top was an empty takeout box and a cardboard coffee cup with Vanessa’s name scribbled across the side.

So, they now had a grocery run and a coffee stop, plus maybe some takeout food. What else had Vanessa been doing the weekend she disappeared?

On the counter was a phone charger and a yellow pad of sticky notes with a phone number scrawled across it, local area code. Brandon took out his phone and snapped a photo of the number. Beside the notepad was a bowl filled with coins, nail clippers, a red matchbook with the name of a sports bar on South Congress. Decker’s Pub. Brandon had never been there, but he knew the location because it was near his favorite jazz club. On the inside flap of the matchbook was a scrawled address: 325 Clark #104. Brandon snapped a picture of that, too.

Antonio returned, and the look on his face made Brandon’s pulse pick up.

“Just talked to the neighbor. She said she passed Vanessa on the stairs Sunday night around ten. Hasn’t seen her since.”

Not long before her abandoned car was discovered.

“Was Vanessa coming or going?” Brandon asked.

“Going.” Antonio glanced back at the door. “This woman said they didn’t say hi. Vanessa was talking on her phone, and she looked upset.”

“Upset?”

“Yeah, she was crying apparently.”

Brandon checked his watch. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Time to light fires under some people. We need that phone dump.”

*   *   *