Before I could decide whether or not to glance his way, the sedan veered around the car ahead of it and ran the light, screeching away. With no way around the other cars, we watched it fade into the distance.
“I’m calling Detective Brunelli with the tag,” Kenna said. “People don’t run red lights for nothing. And that girl was too young to be anywhere but home at this hour.”
“Do it,” I said. “And if Brunelli doesn’t answer, call the police non-emergency line. They can keep an eye out for it. Then call Dean’s cell. He can run the plate. And email Brunelli the video if you can.”
Kenna dialed, and I kept driving, truly unsure of where we’d end up.
Dean texted Kenna that the license plate was registered to an elderly woman in a neighboring wealthy county.
“He said maybe the car or the plate is stolen,” Kenna said. “He’s looking into it. I’m glad I called the police. Now they can be on the lookout for the car—and for those girls. And so can we, right?”
“Of course. We’re out here looking for Kat anyway. I just wish I knew where to go.”
We searched every street, business, and parking lot we could think of, but we didn’t see the car or Kat. We also passed several homeless men and women in open areas and under overpasses, which reminded us of Arthur from the Beaker Motel.
We drove by the place, its familiarity and bright lights somehow soothing, and after a brief talk with the owner, we decided to visit the twenty-four-hour homeless shelter on Ninth Street and see if Arthur was there. It was a well-lit building with a security guard outside. We parked, removed our hats, and got buzzed in after explaining that we were checking on Arthur and another friend.
“You checked Arthur’s background, didn’t you?” Kenna quietly confirmed.
“Yeah. If he gave us his real name, he’s clean, at least locally.”
I picked up a flyer in the entryway and spoke with a dapper gentleman at the information desk.
“Arthur’s not here,” he said. “He checks in every so often, but he must be staying elsewhere tonight.”
“We’ve already checked the Beaker,” I said. “Do you know where else we might find him?”
“No. I’m sorry, ladies.”
I held out a photo of Kat. “We’re also checking on this young woman. Have you seen her recently?”
“No,” he said. “I’m here a lot, and she’s not familiar. I used to be a resident. Now I’m working the door.” He swatted the desk proudly.
“Fantastic,” Kenna said. “How do you like the night shift?”
“Oh, it’s peachy. Always interesting. People can check in anytime, day or night. We’ve even got a nurse practitioner on duty for medical needs.”
“If the shelter was full, or even if it wasn’t, where else might a homeless young woman stay?” I asked.
“In King County? This is it. There’s a nearby center for laundry and showers and other necessities, but its hours are limited.” He pointed to a phone number on the flyer. “You can try calling there tomorrow. And kids under eighteen can go to the youth shelter.”
Although Kat was eighteen, I’d wondered if she lied to stay there, so Kenna had checked there periodically.
“Thank you,” I said. I gave him my card and encouraged him to call if he saw Kat. “Please tell Arthur we stopped by too. Let him know we’re still looking for Kat, and we hope he’s doing well.”
“Will do. He’ll appreciate it. Take care now.”
I couldn’t imagine being homeless, but I knew if I were, his friendliness would be a welcome blessing.
When we got home, Dean had left for his house, and mine felt darker than usual. These days, it was almost unheard of for me to be completely alone at night. Dean had texted Kenna that the elderly woman’s license plate had been stolen, although she hadn’t realized it until that night. The police were on their way to interview her.
I’m home, I texted Dean. Miss you.
Glad you’re safe. Sorry I had to go. Early morning again. Find anything?
Only more questions. Hope tomorrow brings answers.
I’ll come by the pet store at lunch. Is that okay?
Sure. Thanks. Warning: Don’t wear black, and bring a lint brush.
Don’t have one. Duct tape will have to do. Text me any developments, okay? I have a meeting, and then I’m teaching, but I’ll have my phone on.
We both needed rest, so we signed off, and I sent the shop owner a quick message, asking if Kat had opened her email. While waiting for an answer, I fell asleep, cell phone in hand.
When my alarm rang in the morning, the phone had fallen to the floor. I reached for it and checked email immediately. The owner had been in touch first thing.
Kat read the email at 5 a.m., and the program says she clicked on our store link for directions. That’s all I know. See you at nine!
I showered, updated Dean, gave the kids a “good morning/have a good day/love you!” call at Grandma’s, and threw on jeans, a white cable-knit sweater, and sneakers. Wearing white was a treat, since I avoided it at home, knowing how easily the kids could stain it. Maybe wearing it to a pet store wasn’t so smart, given that dogs probably jump on people as much as kids do.
I risked it, doubting it would be the most dangerous thing I’d do all day.
I got to the pet store before nine and looked around, wondering how early Kat might show up. If she’d been up all night, she might sleep for hours. Then again, maybe she slept in the afternoon.
I knew it was a long shot, but I’d asked if one of Maureen Strickland’s shelter volunteers was available to talk with Kat, and she said she’d try to send someone out if I called, but it wasn’t likely. Resources were just too short. Meanwhile, Kenna was parked down the block, ready to follow Kat anywhere if she showed up. For now, we kept in touch by text.
Once the store was unlocked and the lights were on, my first task was unloading bags of birdseed and stacking them onto shelves. Next, I straightened and organized items that customers had misplaced.
As I marveled at the creatures around me—fish, gerbils, hamsters, snakes, and more—I especially missed the kids. Whether they missed me was another story. Over the years, I’d learned to accept and appreciate how much they treasured time with my mom and Kenna’s family.
I was in the middle of a friendly chat with a teen employee about social media (more like research about current trends, although he didn’t realize it), when my phone buzzed with a message from Kenna.
Simultaneously, the door jingled to announce someone’s presence.
I glanced at my phone and then at the entrance.
Kenna’s message was short and sweet, and seeing the new customer’s arrival confirmed it.
It’s her.
Nineteen
Kat looked just like her photos and the way she’d been described. Blond hair, black jeans, black jacket, and black boots. Tiny silver studs dotted her eyebrow. But seeing her in person was a far cry from seeing her online or in my imagination.
The reality of Kat made my heart ache. Under-rested. Overdone. Assertive, yet vulnerable.
She walked straight to the counter and talked with the owner, whose eyes bounced back and forth between us. I strained to hear every word.
“Hey. I’m Kat Burke. You emailed me about a prize?”
“Right, of course. Thanks for coming in.”
“Actually, I know the dog you mentioned in your email. His shelter could use the money, and so could I.”
“Well, congratulations. I’m happy for you and them. Can I see your driver’s license as a formality?” The owner smiled, and Kat flashed an ID. “Perfect. My assistant has your prize. She’s right there.”
She pointed at me as I approached and extended a hand.
“Hi, I’m Nicki. Nice to meet you. Let me take you back to the office and get your swag.”
Kat walked ahead of me, and I shot the owner a grateful smile.
“It’s cash, right? Not a check.” Kat said. “I don’t have a bank account.”
“No problem,” I said, guiding her through the office door, amazed that she was in front of me and terrified she’d leave. “Definitely cash. And a gift certificate. Sorry about all the fur in here.”
Kat took the first chair by the door, and I took the one next to her. Someone had de-fuzzed them, which was a relief, especially since Kat was in black.
“I have to be honest with you,” I said. “You absolutely won a prize, but—” Kat gripped the arms of her chair and looked ready to bolt. “It’s okay,” I reassured her in my kindest voice. “There’s no problem. I’m just going to give you the prizes and offer you some help.”
She relaxed her grip but didn’t let go. I looked into her blue-green eyes, wondering if I’d ever been so physically close to someone for whom I was searching. I prayed she’d stay and listen.
“I’m not the police,” I continued. “I’m a private investigator, and I found you because a lot of people are worried about you. I want to make sure you’re okay. I’m not here to get you in trouble. I promise. I only want to help.”
“Someone hired you to find me?” She looked doubtful.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Your biological mother. Corey Burke.”
She stared at me. “So a druggie hired you to find the kid she dumped? Right. Like I’m going to believe that. I’m doing fine on my own.”
“She says she wants to do better. That she has regrets.”
She shook her head. “I’ve heard that before. Do you have my prize?”
“Kat. I’ve talked with a lot of people, and I know you’re in a tough situation.”
“I’ve always been in a ‘tough situation.’ At least now I can handle it myself instead of letting adults screw it up.”
I avoided her eyes while I thought. Then I caught her gaze. “I admire your independence. Really, I do. And there are lots of ways to take care of yourself. There are programs for young adults who have been in foster care.”
“Social services?” she interrupted. “Uh, no thanks. Been there, done that.”
“There’s a great home in DC for women in your situation. It’s a good transition from this life to more independence.”
“Like a shelter? Hell no. Rather be on my own. Got an apartment. Got someone who takes better care of me than anyone else has.”
Faded dark marks on her face suggested otherwise. And the way she drew back from her own words made me think she regretted them. She’d just suggested someone else was taking care of her.
“So you’re in control of everything? No one else is telling you what to do?” No answer. I softened my voice. “Because I think you’re involved with some controlling people, and that’s not fair to you.”
“You know what? Screw you. You said you were here to help, but you’re just insulting me. So give me my prizes.”
“I will. And I’m sorry. I’m not insulting you. It’s just the opposite. I admire you. I wish I had your confidence when I was your age. You’re ready to take on the world, and you deserve support. Support from people who have no other motives.”
“Really? Look who’s talking. You got paid to find me. Why don’t you go pick up your paycheck?”
“You have a point, but I’m not getting paid yet. And I do care. So does the staff at the women’s shelter. Most of them are volunteers, and the place runs on donations. I put their number with your prizes.”
“Someone’s always getting paid. Believe me.”
“What about in your life?” I asked. “How are you getting by?”
Quiet again. “Don’t worry about me. Just tell Corey I’m surviving on my own, and I’m doing great. Now give me my stuff and let me go. You can’t keep me here.”
She was right about that. But maybe something else could.
“You know, Corey isn’t the only one who wants to know you’re okay. What about Joey? And Bruno?”
“I’ll see them when I can.” Her voice had softened a touch.
“What about your foster family? What about Alexander?” I felt guilty for bringing him up, but if she walked out the door, I was afraid I’d never see her again.
“Is he still with Brenda?”
“I think so. Why don’t you come back and find out? Everyone who loves you would welcome you with open arms. I think they’d give anything to know you’re okay.”
“Come back? Come back where? There is no back. I’m making the best life I can for myself. Everyone has to accept that and move on.”
She grabbed a manila envelope from the desk’s edge, correctly guessing it was hers. I’d made sure it included my cell phone number.
“Don’t follow me,” she said.
I didn’t. But Kenna did.
She’s heading South, Kenna texted me. On foot.
Given Kat’s parting command to me—and her unwillingness to turn around, no matter what I said—I let them have a head start. Then I ran to the van, put on a different shirt, stuck my hair in a ponytail, and threw on sunglasses. With Kenna on the case and in touch frequently, I jogged toward them but hung back a bit, trying to focus on what might happen next, not how I’d just failed.
After they rounded a corner out of sight, my phone buzzed.
316 Martin Street, Kenna texted. Apt building. Following.
I’d warned Kenna not to do anything except follow and take notes. No approaching Kat. No knocking on doors. She’d agreed, but panic set in as I thought about her newbie status compared to the overconfidence she’d demonstrated so far. And by so far, I meant throughout our relationship.
Be careful, I reminded her. Don’t get too close.
I’m fine, she responded. Second floor.
When I got to the building minutes later, she hadn’t texted again.
Location? I asked.
No answer.
I stood in the lobby, deciding between the elevator and stairs. Stairs, I decided. Kenna was more likely to have taken them.
With no one around, I hustled to the stairwell and second floor, where I quickly texted Dean as a safety precaution. Then I pushed open the stairwell door, imagining Kenna doing the same thing, since it didn’t have a window. She’d want to know where Kat had ended up.
The elevator was front and center in the hallway. Another hallway branched off, creating a T-shape, presumably with apartments on all three sides.
Either Kenna had taken the hallway that was out of sight, another set of stairs, or the elevator down while I went up.
Quietly, with my head low, I walked down the carpeted hall and turned into the hidden corridor, worried that Kenna wasn’t in sight. Maybe she’d gone back to the lobby or out onto the street. But then why hadn’t she texted me? I checked the reception on my phone, thinking maybe it was poor. Nope.
I stopped moving and activated my location app. Kenna and I had access to each other’s locations, but the app wasn’t perfect, and sometimes it took a while to load and update. Texting was always faster. Also, Kenna hadn’t used it much.
Location not available, it said. Phone may be turned off or in an area without service.
My heart dropped into my stomach. My phone’s reception was fine, and we had the same carrier. Kenna wouldn’t have turned her phone off on purpose. Accidentally was possible, but unlikely.
Calm down, I told myself. Maybe she turned it off to silence it. I’d done that before. Or maybe someone’s trying to silence her, my fears argued. What are you going to do?
Ideas crisscrossed my mind at warp speed, but nothing felt right. A thump in a nearby apartment jolted me out of contemplation and into action. If Kenna was behind one of those walls, how had she gotten there? And how could I find her? Should I call
the police? Or Andy?
I hit “find” on the location app again, silently begging it to work.
It did.
It showed Kenna was in the building, toward the back, similar to where I was standing.
She could be a floor above or below me, or, depending on who had her phone, she could be somewhere else completely. Plus, the app wasn’t perfect. When Dean and I used it, sometimes there was a lag, so it would show where we’d been instead of where we were at the moment. But it never showed somewhere totally random, somewhere we’d never been.
I did a quick walk down the hall, refreshing the app and listening at each door.
Several doors in, a few things hit me. First, the doors weren’t thick, so I could hear things like TVs and kids. Second, Kenna’s location wasn’t changing on the app. Third, the app had more options than locating someone, including a piercing alarm feature for finding lost phones. I could use it and do some quick looking—or listening. I just hoped it wouldn’t upset or endanger Kenna.
Sensing time was of the essence, I hit “alarm” and paced down the hall, both worried and relieved that I didn’t hear anything like the siren I hoped her phone was emitting. Maybe she was waiting outside for me, and something was wrong with one of our phones or our carrier.
But as I turned the corner, I heard a faint, pulsing blare and several thumps.
Panicked, I knocked on the closest door, frantically thinking of any excuse I could use to get a response. Maintenance? Pizza delivery? Sweepstakes representative? From now on, I needed to keep balloons and a big fake check in my van. Who could resist that?
“Maintenance!” I yelled. “Building’s on fire! Everyone out! Hurry! 911’s on the way!”
There was scuffling behind the door, and I waved at the peephole, obscuring its view of my face.
A man opened the door slightly, glaring at me with one brown eye. “It’s not our fire alarm,” he said. “Go away.”
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