“Dr. Ortiz?” Becca saw Det. Joanne Wishard heading her way. Half-Japanese, half-Caucasian, Joanne was five feet tall and dressed in slacks and a button-down blouse, her polished demeanor a stark contrast to the rumpled detectives Becca usually encountered. Wishard wore a pleasant expression, something she used to her advantage, counting on the fact that most people, including the men in the department, would underestimate her.

Becca wasn’t a fan, remembering their one and only encounter several years ago when she was called to the scene of a home invasion gone very wrong. The entire family was gunned down except for the youngest member, a five-year-old girl, who locked herself in a closet. Becca was called in to soothe the child and remove her from the home without subjecting her to any additional trauma. At the station, Becca and Wishard disagreed about protocol, the officer pushing the young girl to make a statement despite Becca’s insistence that she wasn’t ready. Things got heated when Wishard accused Becca of interfering with the investigation and asked her to leave. If Wishard remembered this tense encounter, she didn’t show it.

“Dr. Ortiz, I’m so sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. We’re doing everything we can to track down your foster daughter. I’m hoping we can talk about Ashley so I can get a little clarity.”

Becca stiffened. God, she hated the qualifier. “Foster” daughter, as if Becca didn’t really count as Ash’s mother. Becca told herself that in a few short weeks, none of that would matter. She would bring Ash home and make things official.

“She goes by Ash,” Becca said sharply. The least this woman could do was get Ash’s name right.

“Of course. I want to assure you we’re doing everything in our power to locate Ash and get her home safely.”

Becca heard cops say versions of this before. In fact, she spoke platitudes like these as well to hundreds of clients. They were just words. Becca wanted action. She motioned to the victim’s forearm, the medical examiner snapping photos.

“Ash had the same tattoo. So did this boy. I’m pretty sure that’s her boyfriend,” Becca said while pulling up the photo on her phone.

“Mind if I… ?” Wishard asked. Becca shrugged, watching as Wishard took the phone, typed in her number, and texted it to herself in less than thirty seconds. “Christian briefed me on your findings, Dr. Ortiz, but I’d love to hear more from you. It’s going to take my guys some time process the scene. Why don’t the three of us head over to the IHOP? Talk over some coffee?” Wishard said.

“Fantastic. A crappy cup of diner coffee will make everything better,” Becca said, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them. Wishard smiled and placed a reassuring hand on Becca’s arm.