Byyle’s situation was ideal, serving him well over the years. It was here, through his channels, that he sold his work, and the works he’d acquired online, to an eclectic clientele around the world. Other than the occasional business trip and communicating with clients online, he could go for weeks, even months, without contact in the real world. That was something he treasured, because it was conducive to his work, which often presented challenges.

He thrived on challenges.

Settling before his laptop with his coffee, Byyle studied the photos he’d taken of his most recent prize. As was his practice after an acquisition, he’d taken pains recording images of it in his studio in preparation for auction. Sometimes it would be months before the desired auction was held. Until then, he kept the work secured in storage.

Byyle was thrilled with his newest piece, admiring its many attributes. He expected a strong six-figure sale.

Finishing up, Byyle got more coffee, returned to his computer and scrolled through news sites. His interest in state, national and global affairs was tepid. However, he was curious about the tragic case of the college student from New York who’d vanished from a motel in Spiritsburg.

Samantha Moore.

It’s been about five months now, Byyle thought, skimming through older stories, looking at dates, reading how they searched everywhere for her. Goodness, they’d even questioned him and searched the property with a dog, but found no trace of her anywhere.

Devlin Foxe seemed so concerned about it at the time.

As Byyle continued reading, it appeared nothing recent had been reported.

Will they ever find out what happened to her?

Tituba leapt into his lap as he began digesting some of the longer articles, most of which he’d read before, coming again to the speculation by investigators that the young woman had been abducted.

This region has a disturbing history of missing persons, doesn’t it?

Byyle studied the screen. “Look at her picture, look into those eyes. That girl was troubled. That’s what I think.”

Tituba meowed.

“Don’t you agree, sweetie?”

Tituba meowed.

“Of course you do.”

Byyle drank some coffee and released a long sigh.

“But what do we know, right?”

Tituba meowed.

CHAPTER 17

Derby, Vermont

The call from the university signaled hope.

Noble carried it with him into the conference room, where he gathered with his captain and several other investigators for a video conference with Professor Constance Reeves in Chicago.

Her face appeared on the large monitor mounted on the wall. She was in her mid-30s, wore stylish glasses, and was in an office lined with books. The screen split with a frozen image of headlights in the night fog, recorded by the dash camera from the Moore vehicle.

After introductions to those on the phone and at the table, Reeves began.