As they made their way toward the car, Bree’s trembling fingers dialed the number for the diner where Bianca worked. Bree could feel the seconds ticking away like a bomb, counting down to zero with each ring.
"Rosie's Diner, Helen speaking," came the crackling voice on the line finally, breaking through Bree's anxious haze.
"Hi, Helen, this is Investigator Bree Noble with the LAFD. I'm trying to reach Bianca Ruiz. It's urgent."
"Sorry, hun, Bianca left over an hour ago. Almost wound up stuck here, actually. The car wouldn't start. But then this guy showed up and offered her a ride. Seemed like an old friend. Some real knight in shining armor stuff."
"Did you happen to catch his name?" Bree pressed, her heart sinking.
"Didn’t say. Sorry."
“That’s okay. Thank you for your time."
"Is everything alright?" Helen asked. "Bianca's not in trouble, is she?"
“No, I-uh… we’re doing everything we can,” Bree said, ending the call as a cold dread settled in her stomach. Jamie must have disabled Bianca’s car as a way to make sure she would leave with him. And an hour was more than enough time for Jamie to take Bianca anywhere, to do anything.
"I’ll call the station," Mike offered as they climbed into the car. “Have them track her phone.”
Without hesitation, Mike pulled out his own phone. His face, usually a mask of stoic professionalism, betrayed a hint of trepidation.
“Hey, it’s Mike Hanley. I’m with Investigator Noble, and we need an immediate trace on two cell phones," Mike spoke swiftly into the phone, rattling off both phone numbers with impressive speed.
The static-filled silence that followed seemed to stretch into infinity before the dispatcher returned with an answer.
"I’m sorry, Mike, but both phones are off or unreachable. We’ve got no pings to go on."
"Damn it!" Bree exclaimed, frustration boiling within her, mingling with the fear that they were running out of time.
She closed her eyes briefly, trying to steady her breathing. When she opened them again, the harsh reality set in—without the digital tether to guide them, finding Bianca and Jamie would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.
"Mike, we've got to think. Where would he take her?" Bree implored, her mind racing through possibilities, each one darker than the last.
Bree's mind was a storm-tossed sea, her thoughts crashing against the shores of urgency and dread. The ticking clock of Bianca's fate echoed in her ears as she climbed into the car and opened her laptop. Her fingers pounded the keys, summoning social media profiles in a desperate attempt to find something, anything, that might give her a clue as to where they were going.
"Think, Bree, think," she muttered to herself, her voice almost a growl. There had to be a clue, a pattern, something that would illuminate the path he'd taken with Bianca clutched in his all-too-dangerous grasp.
Across from her, Mike's sturdy frame was hunched over his phone. His thumb hovered before pressing the call button, reaching out for any thread of hope. He dialed Bianca's parents, his voice steady but lined with tension as he left a message on their answering machine.
"Mrs. Ruiz, this is Mike Hanley, I'm with the LAFD investigation team. It's urgent we speak with you. Please, as soon as you get this—"
The beep of the voicemail cut him off, a stark reminder that they were running blind, grasping at shadows while time bled away like water through clenched fingers.
"Damn," Mike cursed under his breath, ending the call.
Normally, on a rare moment like this when Mike’s full frustration came to the surface, Bree would have tried to offer him some encouragement, but right now, her attention was riveted to the screen.
"Got something. Look, Bianca and Jamie went to the same high school. That must have been where they met. I found this in the archives" Bree's pulse quickened as she clicked on an image buried in the digital edition of an old yearbook—a photo from a high school event. Jamie and Bianca were both there, almost strangers to each other amidst the crowd, yet the seed of their connection was evident even in that frozen moment.
"Mike," she said, her voice sharp with discovery, "What if he's going back to the beginning of their relationship? The place where his obsession with her began?"
Mike straightened, his instincts honed from years of tracking the elusive fiends born of flame and fury. He understood the twisted logic of arsonists. If Jamie wanted to erase Bianca—as people who used something as all-consuming as fire often did, then the origin was the key.
"Let's move," he said, already shifting the car into gear.
The GPS screen glowed a cold blue as Mike punched in the address with practiced precision. His fingers, calloused from years of battling searing heat and saving lives from the clutches of disaster, trembled slightly with the weight of the moment. He could almost hear the tick of an unseen clock, each second resonating like the final drops of water in a drought.
"Ten minutes," he announced, the engine roaring to life beneath them as he reversed out of the parking space with a haste that bordered on recklessness.
Bree's grip tightened on the door handle, her knuckles white as she braced herself against the sudden acceleration. The city whipped past them in a blur, a tapestry of concrete and steel that bore silent witness to their desperate pursuit.
"Ten minutes," she repeated softly, more to herself than to Mike. Her mind raced faster than the vehicle, cataloging every possible outcome, calculating risks and formulating strategies. She knew that moments like this didn't forgive hesitation or second-guessing; they demanded action, decisiveness, and an unwavering resolve. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from asking:
"Do you think we’ll make it in time?"
The question hung between them, a specter of doubt that neither could afford to entertain.
"We have to," Mike replied finally, his hands gripping the steering wheel with a steadiness that belied the gravity of their situation.
The car’s engine hummed a low, urgent tune as the GPS counted down the minutes. Bree's gaze was locked onto her phone screen, her fingers tapping and swiping with a frantic energy that contrasted the stillness of her expression. She needed to navigate Jamie Pike's psyche, map out the contours of his twisted logic, find the X that marked the spot where he would take Bianca.
She studied the map of the campus, its hallways winding and classrooms numerous—a daunting maze for anyone unfamiliar with its secrets. Time was evaporating like rain on hot pavement, and they could not afford to search aimlessly upon arrival.
She dove into the depths of the school’s online archives, dredging up yearbook photos, graduation announcements, anything that might whisper a hint of Jamie's intentions. Her trained eyes moved across the images, seeking patterns amidst the chaos, connections that others might overlook. Each post, each tagged location was a potential breadcrumb leading to Bianca's whereabouts.
"Come on, Jamie, show me where you're hiding.”
Mike stole a glance at her, his face a mask of concern and concentration. "You’ll find it, Bree. If anyone can get inside this guy's head, it's you."
She nodded, barely registering his words, her mind laser-focused on the task at hand. Image after image flickered past, each dismissed with a swipe of her thumb until one particular photo halted her frenetic search. She leaned closer, her breath catching in her throat as if the air around her had thickened.
There they were, Jamie and Bianca, younger and unmarred by the scars of future tragedies. They stood side by side in a group photo, an emblem of camaraderie among the smiling faces of the ceramics club. Something about their proximity to each other, the way Jamie's hand was almost—but not quite—touching Bianca's spoke volumes to Bree. It was more than just a shared interest; it was a bond, a shared secret expressed in body language.
"Got something?" Mike asked, sensing the shift in her energy.
"Maybe," Bree replied, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. "They were in the ceramics club together."
Suddenly, the significance of the club resonated within her, igniting a spark of intuition. Ceramics—molding something fragile from the raw, shaping it under careful hands, only to subject it to the searing heat of the kiln.
"Kilns," she breathed out, the word slicing through the silence like a blade. "Ceramics needs kilns. And kilns mean fire."