She couldn’t help the bubble of laughter that escaped her, which soon turned into a long, rolling laugh, and she grabbed her belly.
Travis watched her, looking a little wary. Probably considering institutionalization.
“It’s just”—she stopped to wipe away a tear—“yesterday we started out with a decked-out Range Rover and a late-model Mercedes ST edition. And today…that’s all we have left.”
Bonnie, as Claire called her, was even more decrepit under the early morning sun, the rust along the passenger side glaring at them, the worn tires looking like they’d pop at the touch of a pin.
She met his gaze and was surprised to see him returning her smile. “I like to kick it up a bit.”
The car door creaked open loudly, probably not helped by the morning dew that settled over everything. Goose bumps trailed down her arms, and she grabbed the sweatshirt she’d left in the backseat and covered her shoulders while Travis started the car and pulled out.
He smelled nice, clean and slightly musky. How did guys do that? Let off that au naturel scent that had her crossing her legs at the sudden longing that filled her. She’d be an idiot to deny that she found him attractive.
The man was eye candy.
This was not good. And she took a hearty sip of her coffee as she mulled that over, letting Travis’s choice in music go unremarked upon. Even if it didn’t make any sense.
Short skirt and a long jacket? What did that even mean?
They pulled into the crowded parking lot a few minutes later, and she placed her travel mug on the floor. Travis waited for her on the sidewalk, looking around.
“Do you know what this guy looks like?”
He didn’t respond, but he’d stopped, a slight smile crossing his face, and Meredith turned to see what had caught his attention.
Or who might be a better description.
The blonde was the size of a Pixy Stix, slim and tiny, almost boy-like in size, the top of her head maybe coming to Meredith’s chin. Her smile was immediately engaging as she pushed her dark-rimmed glasses farther up her nose. Her blond hair was bobbed in an A line that lengthened near the front of her face.
Perky and pretty. Meredith hated her on sight.
“Look at you, stranger. You clean up nice,” she said and leaned forward, accepting Travis’s arms easily around her in a hug.
What was with this man and women hugging him?
“You’re looking terrific, too, Meems. The civilian life seems to suit you.”
Meems? Was that even a word?
Meems finally drew her gaze from Travis and looked at Meredith, still smiling. “You must be Meredith. I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I’m Marianne but people just call me Meems.”
Adorable.
“Let’s go get a seat, I’m starved,” the little Muppet said, and Travis followed her inside, almost forgetting that Meredith was even there.
She gritted her teeth and followed them.
Midmorning on a Friday, the diner wasn’t too busy, and they easily found a booth. Travis waited for both women to be seated, taking five seconds too long trying to decide whom he was going to sit next to, then slid into the seat next to Meredith.
“Coffee?” their server asked, holding a pot in her hand. Mugs filled, the woman brought out a pad and pencil and took their order before slipping away.
Meems dug into her messenger bag and pulled out a laptop and a stack of folders.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Travis said.
“That’s what you’re paying me the big bucks for, right?” she said and opened her computer and tapped at the keys.
Meredith, however, was too aware of the length of Travis’s leg pressed against hers to pay any attention.
Not good. Focus.
She squeezed closer to the window, trying to put a few inches of space between them. Even the brush of his leg against hers stirred things she had no business thinking about.
“Stop keeping us in suspense, Meems. What have you discovered?”
“Nothing certain. A lot of what I have is just conjecture. No hard evidence. Whoever this is, they’re good. I’ve been digging through missing person reports over the past five years, looking for similar victims—young girls, eighteen years old, give or take, who’ve gone missing. And I think I found something.”
She turned the laptop around to show a map of the western United States. “These,” she said, pointing to a scattering of stars across the states, “are where missing person reports have been filed in the past five years…Vegas, Salt Lake, Denver, Rock Springs. All of the girls are over eighteen and recent high school graduates. Of the nineteen I’ve found, all of them—with the exception of your daughter, Meredith—are lower- to middle-class. In a couple of instances, it was a roommate or boyfriend notifying the police that their friend has been missing a few days; a handful of times it was concerned parents or family. From what I could tell, the assumption in all of these separate cases was that the young woman just picked up and moved on. No evidence of foul play was found, nor did anything turn up that would indicate something more was at play.”
“Like what? What more would they need than the word of a concerned family member?” Meredith asked, outraged that so many young girls could be lost and no one cared.
Meems gave Travis a look, and he finished for her. “A body. Some proof that someone is out there preying on young girls.”
Their food arrived, their server either not hearing Travis’s comment or purposely ignoring it as she set their food in front of them.
“That’s why this could be genius,” Meems said after the server left. She slathered her pancakes with butter and poured the maple syrup generously on top. The girl clearly wasn’t afraid of a few carbs. “Other than three of these girls, whose parents or boyfriends insisted something was wrong, the others fell off the radar. And because the girls are spread over multiple states, no immediate connection’s been made.”
“What reason would the police have to ignore the reports?” Meredith asked.
Meems picked up her coffee and washed down her mouthful. “Probably for the same reasons the police told you when you filed your missing person report—she’s young, newly independent, probably testing her wings. That she’ll show up eventually once she runs out of money.”
Travis had worked through his plate of pancakes and was digging into his ham and cheese omelet. How he had an appetite Meredith didn’t know as she stared down at her own egg-white omelet. She picked up her toast instead and took a bite.
“Five years and nineteen girls—that we know of. None of their bodies have been found. That could be a good thing. Either that or they just haven’t been discovered yet. But after five years, you’d think something would have turned up.” He swigged a mouthful of coffee down, nodding as he processed the information. “And the girls. Anything of interest about their description? Same ethnicity? Race? Hair color?”
“All pretty, but other than that, nothing consistent. You got a handful of Hispanic girls, two Asian girls, one African American. Of the white girls, there were brunettes, blondes, redheads.”
She paused, looking at Meredith a second too long. “Do you want me to speak frankly?”
“By all means,” Meredith said, knowing that the woman’s hesitation had to be about her. “Are you thinking this is the work of a”—she barely could say it—“serial killer?”
The woman looked directly at Meredith now. “Honestly? It’s entirely possible, only…I have some other theories as well.” She flipped the laptop back to face her and typed as she continued, “Serial killers usually stick to an MO. Same race, and often within that race they might prefer brunettes, or blondes. Some attribute, some characteristic the victims share that means something to the killer. This guy—or gal—is picking them indiscriminately. Then there’s the fact that the women are from various areas, four different states.”
“That can hardly be uncommon,” Meredith said. “Bundy and countless others h
ave crossed multiple state lines.”
“Yes, but the pattern is odd here. According to the reports, sometimes two, maybe three girls go missing around the same time. Within the same few days. Utah and Colorado in one instance. That has to be tough, when you consider all the planning that would have to go into the apprehension of one. Planning that almost would require…a network. Not just one person, but a few to help carry this out.” She typed again, stopping as she studied the data. “January, March, June. November. These are months that the girls have disappeared for the past five years. Recognize any pattern?”
He thought about it for just a beat. “Sporting events. NBA finals, Super Bowl, maybe March Madness?”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Meems said and shared a look with Travis, who nodded slightly. They knew something, had some understanding, but they weren’t saying it out loud.
Meredith was going to stab her fork in Travis’s thigh if he didn’t stop the secrets.
“I’ve put out some feelers,” Meems said. “I don’t have any bites but I’m going to keep looking.”
It was like they were speaking in some secret code, both understanding the other and not feeling the need to share with Meredith.
She gripped her fork tighter. “What aren’t you telling me? If you don’t think this is the work of a serial killer, you clearly have some idea what might be going on. Spill.”
Meems looked expectantly at Travis, who turned to face her. “Sounds like…possibly human trafficking. These girls could be kept as forced prostitutes in some hole-in-the-wall in town. Then sold to high bidders and moved around the country. It all depends on who’s running it. Their connections. For a few years now, there’s been reports of these rings supplying girls for some of the big sporting events. For their guests.”
“According to the FBI database, there are three separate organizations in the area that they suspect operate in drug and human trafficking,” Meems added.
“Like a sex slave. You’re saying that there are men who will use these girls, willing or not, for sex.” Her stomach tightened, and she was relieved she hadn’t eaten her breakfast since she was sure it would be revisiting her right now. “And if the girls refused? What then?”
“It’s not optional. They might be beaten until they come around, or if they’re lucky, drugged so they can’t fight.”
She wanted to cry. Needed to cry. But not here. Not now. It had only been one day. If what they were saying was at all possible, she had time.
Darcy was alive. And she’d find her and bring her home.
“I’ve printed off each missing persons report,” Meems said and pushed the stack of files to Travis. “Along with a copy of the police notes and any conclusion as well as information the FBI has gathered. Don’t ask how,” she added when Travis opened his mouth. “I’ll continue to dig and if I find anything else, possibly some connection, I’ll let you know.”
The chime from Meredith’s phone sent her fumbling for her purse. It wasn’t the familiar song she’d selected as Darcy’s ringtone, but it could be someone with information. Her fingers found the device and she quickly answered.
“Meredith? Where the hell are you?” a female voice yelled into her ear.
“Excuse me? Who is this?”
“Are you kidding, Mer? It’s Annabeth. You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.” Twenty minutes ago? Why would she be— “You’re going on air in forty minutes. You all but blackmailed me into giving you this promo spot for that gala of yours and you’re going to leave me—and my job—out to dry?” the woman continued and Meredith grimaced, pulling the phone away from her ear.
From the looks of Travis and Meems, her shrill voice had been heard across the table.
Oh, mother of…
She’d completely forgotten. Annabeth was right. She had strong-armed the woman into making this happen, had even planned her outfit down to the lip color and accessories she’d wear, looking forward to the airtime and the attention it would give the event.
But that had been before Darcy went missing.
She considered the possibility of canceling, but what would that accomplish other than having made a permanent enemy of Annabeth Rivers, local news darling and television personality? And there weren’t any active leads they were following up on now. Just waiting and hoping for a call with some bit of information.
Then there was the other possibility. Maybe she could use this to her advantage.
“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
She jumped up, pushing Travis out of his seat. “We have to go. I completely forgot.”
“What?” he asked and dropped cash on the table for their meal.
She grabbed the files and tucked them under her arm. “I’m supposed to be speaking on live television on Lunch Café in forty minutes. It was nice meeting you, Meems.”
The woman just crooked her brow up and nodded. “Later.”
…
Travis drove toward downtown, keeping his eye equally on the road and the woman next to him, who was frantically digging through her purse for a lipstick and mascara, cursing under her breath.
“So what’s this thing you’re doing?” he asked, a little confused by her excitement over this interview. She’d looked like she was going to be sick moments before, and he couldn’t blame her. If her daughter had been taken as part of a human trafficking ring, she could be anywhere, having anything done to her. Now it was as if she’d pushed it out of her mind and was getting ready for a dance or something.
Maybe it was her way of dealing. Hell, he didn’t know. She was an enigma to him.
“Aha.” She pulled a lipstick out and pulled down the passenger seat visor. She leaned forward, applying the deep red shade. “Don’t. Hit. A. Pothole. Damn,” she said, apparently not satisfied with her progress, and dug in her purse again until she found a Kleenex. “Back when we were coming up with ways to draw attendance to the school’s gala, I contacted Annabeth to see if she could give me any airtime. I promised her practically my right kidney to get the spot. It was worth it, though. Lunch Café is number one in its time slot, and the Friday feature spot on upcoming weekend events is prime.”
“Annabeth…wasn’t she one of your henchmen in high school?” Red hair and ivory skin, she’d been on the debate team and captain of the lacrosse team. Popular on her own laurels, she hadn’t needed to kowtow to Meredith’s orders when she pulled some of that awful shit.
No. She’d just genuinely liked doing it.
“Very funny. You’d think she could just offer up the spot, seeing how she’s an alumna, too. But not her. Everything has a price.” She dabbed at her lips, then pressed a kiss into the Kleenex. Satisfied, she threw everything back in the purse and shut the visor, looking back outside.
“So. Meems,” she said, finally. “Interesting woman. How did you say you knew her?”
“I didn’t. But if you’re asking, we met a couple of years ago.”
“I thought you were doing some undercover operation in Afghanistan two years ago?”
He glanced at her. “I hadn’t realized you were paying attention.” She didn’t respond, just waited for his answer. “Yeah, we met during the op. She was an analyst then. Once our mission was over, like me, she needed something different. I might have once mentioned the incredible views of my hometown a few times, and since she’s a skier, she decided to check it out.”
Now she was turning skeptical eyes on him. “Of all the places in the world with renowned ski resorts, she chose to come here. Your hometown.” She folded her arms in front of her chest and shook her head. “Fine. Don’t tell me. Not like I couldn’t tell from the looks you were giving each other you two had something together.”
He didn’t answer. Not immediately. “Is that really what you want to talk about? Because you just learned some pretty scary things, but instead of dealing with it, you’re harassing me about my dating life?”
“I just want to know if your focus is wher
e it should be. You’re making googly eyes at the blonde when—when—”
He met her eyes, raising his brows, waiting for the insults to continue. Only her eyes widened as she recognized the truth of what he’d said. Almost immediately the brown depths pooled with tears.
Meredith Sanders was crying. He hadn’t seen her cry since that day—when she’d decimated him.
He willed himself to harden up, to not be taken in again by the act. “You done yet?”
She brought her hand up to her mouth and nodded, then looked away, taking in deep breaths.
“You’re right, of course,” she said, her voice almost returned to normal. “It’s just this not knowing. Not knowing if she’s dead, left somewhere to find, and then you talk about the possibility that she could be taken, drugged or beaten, forced to comply in some sex trade. And I’m not sure what’s worse.”
She choked back another sob. Another breath.
Before he could make any comment, she continued. “I was thinking…about this interview thing. What if I talked about Darcy? Would I be putting her in danger?”
He considered it. He’d even mentioned that very possibility yesterday. But now that they had some idea what they were dealing with—and he had no reason to doubt Meems’s instinct as she’d been dead-on every other time—he wondered if it could have some benefits. “This organization—these human traffickers, if that’s what they are—they’ve been keeping a low profile. Selecting girls who would easily disappear with little to no alarm set off. The usual mode of operation would be to select girls who have low self-esteem, who are easily misguided and likely living with no one who will care if they never come home. The runaways, girls from broken homes, like a struggling single parent, that sort of thing.”
“But Darcy has me.” She sounded fierce as she said this.
She wasn’t going to like him for what he was going to say. Well, she’d like him less. “I’m guessing that they underestimated you and the depth of your feelings for your daughter. Take a step back. Look at what’s publicly known. Darcy’s biological mom took off when she was a kid, and her dad was left to raise her. But then he dies and she’s dumped on a stepmom, barely a girl herself. A stepmom who, by some accounts”—he remembered the reactions from people they’d spoken to yesterday, people who could be described as surprised at the level of Meredith’s feelings for her stepdaughter—“wouldn’t have thought you’d be so invested in Darcy’s interests. Maybe would have been relieved that she’d turned eighteen, graduated high school, and maybe gone off to find herself. That she was no longer your responsibility.”
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