Frost let out a “yeah right” laugh. “No. But we didn’t need her permission because this footage came from a nearby business and the city cameras.” He looked at Charlie and the sheriff, a smile playing at his lips. “Smart, right?”

“Very smart,” Sheriff Huggins said before he swallowed the last bite of his muffin. “Now that my blood pressure is good and high, why don’t you tell us what you found?”

“Right.” Frost pushed up his glasses. “So, I thought since we found something in the video at the storage unit, maybe I’d find something outside the gallery. Here’s footage taken on Wednesday afternoon from the alleyway behind the gallery.”

After a few keystrokes, one of the screens played a video of Sydney rushing out of the alleyway, carrying a rectangular object. Her movements hurried, she looked over her shoulder before walking into the street and out of range of the video.

“Do we have more? Where does she go?” Charlie sat at the edge of his seat. Seeing the teenager living, breathing . . . did she know that less than twenty-four hours later she’d be dead? “What was she carrying? A painting?”

“Do any of the videos show where she goes next?”

Frost rotated in his chair and shook his head. “Once she crosses Bull Street and heads into the park, the sun’s glare blocks her movements.”

Charlie pressed back into his chair. Frustrated. Tired. Angry. He pinched the bridge of his nose. If this was good news, it was going to be a very long day.

“Is there footage of Sydney leaving the gallery?” Sheriff Huggins asked.

“Not directly, sir. The cameras in that alleyway were positioned to catch footage of the businesses who owned them, but based off what she was wearing we can see she’s coming from that direction.”

“So, she was probably carrying a painting.”

“That’s the good news.” Frost’s voice picked up. “After Lynch spotted the name of the gallery in that photo, I thought maybe if I”—Frost hit a few keys to manipulate the image on the screen until it grew larger and larger—“focused on what we could see, we’d find a clue.”

“An address.” It was blurry, but Charlie could make out what appeared to be an address label on the package Sydney was holding.

Before either Charlie or Sheriff Huggins could ask, Frost was already typing again. “Tax records show the home belongs to Seth and Callista Hollins of Chicago, Illinois. A second home currently occupied by their only son, Savannah socialite and playboy extraordinaire, Floyd Hollins.”

“You got that from the tax records?”

“Social media, my dear Watson. I thought by now you’d understand the method to my madness.” Frost’s voice became nasally. “His profile on the LINKUP website says he likes rugby, polo, and women who are hot. Spelled h-a-u-t-e.” Frost turned to Charlie. “But pronounced hote. It means ‘fashionably elegant’ or ‘high class.’”