It was a young woman.

Patricia stopped singing and pulled the earbuds from her ears. It was unnaturally quiet. Even the birds were silent.

“Hello?” Patricia said.

The young woman didn’t move.

She was lying face-down, wearing a blue sweatshirt, gray sweats, and socks, the soles of which were covered in fresh grass stains. Her wavy, chestnut hair fanned out across the pavement.

Patricia took a cautious step closer. “Excuse me?”

There was still no movement from the young woman.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?”

Patricia closed the few remaining feet between them and crouched. The discovery had been so sudden, her senses hadn’t caught up, but now her pulse began to spike and her breathing quickened.

“Are you all right?”

She nudged the young woman’s shoulder, which brought no reaction.

Maybe she passed out, Patricia thought.

“Hey,” she softly said. “You need to wake up. We need to get you out of the road.”

As gently as she could, Patricia rolled the young woman onto her back. She then gasped and recoiled.

The young woman was in her teens. Deep bruises encircled her neck but the most unsettling feature was the eyes, which stared lifelessly upwards.

That’s when Patricia Crawford began screaming.

2

Detective Meredith Somerset sat at her desk, filling out paperwork and signing off on requests for lab work. She glanced up at the clock on the wall for the fourth or fifth time, confirming that it was well past eight. She picked up the old, red sponge ball from her desk and rolled it between her hands for a few moments before turning to the open office door behind her, through which she could see Sergeant Wheaton sitting at his desk, peering at the computer screen over the rims of his glasses, and pecking away on the keyboard.

“You want me to call him?” she asked. “See where he’s at?”

“I do not,” he calmly replied. “He gets here when he gets here. Then, he can tell me what was more important than being on time his first day.”

“That’s a little harsh.”

“Yes,” Sergeant Wheaton replied, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and continuing to type.

Meredith didn’t envy her new partner, Tyler Foles, but Sergeant Wheaton was right. It was a bad look to be late on your first day. And why hadn’t he called? It happened, morning traffic in Atlanta was obscene, but there hadn’t been any word from him. Tyler Foles was late, hadn’t checked in, and wasn’t doing himself any favors.

The phone on Meredith’s desk rang. She quickly grabbed it.

“This is Somerset.”

“Hey, Meredith. It’s Jackson.”

“Hey, Jackson. What’s up?”

“Got one for you. Female. Mid-to-late teens. No ID. Found in the middle of the street in a nice neighborhood.”

Meredith grabbed a pen from the coffee mug on the corner of the desk and pulled a notepad in front of her.