Chapter 47

Penelope took a cab uptown, willing the driver to move faster, scanning the faces of the people on the sidewalk as they went. She knew this was a useless activity, in a city with more than eight million people, the chances were zero she’d come across the one person she desperately wanted to find. But there was nothing else to do on the ride, and it kept her from jumping out at every red light and making a run for the Theater District.

When they finally pulled up in front of the Vitrine, she leapt from the cab and sprinted to the apartment building, fumbled her key into the lock and slapped the elevator button. Pressing the button for twelve, she focused on her breath, willing herself to not panic. She pictured Abigail safe in her apartment, free from harm, hoping against hope the girl was fine and this was all a hoax, another cruel prank.

Penelope hurried down the hallway to Abigail’s apartment, her heart sinking when she saw the door was slightly ajar, the deadbolt keeping it from closing all the way. She tented her fingers and pushed it open slowly, peering inside as much as the space would allow, ready to duck back in the hallway quickly if she came upon anyone besides Abigail inside.

The elevator pinged in the hallway behind her as she opened the door the whole way.

It was empty, no sign of Abigail in the tiny studio.

“Step back,” Doyle said behind her. “Wait out in the hallway, Penelope.”

“She’s gone,” Penelope said.

Doyle gave her a sympathetic glance then stepped inside, a uniformed officer he’d brought with him following closely behind.

“Looks like struggle happened here,” Doyle said.

Penelope saw the piles of clothes strewn around the room and the unmade beds he was looking at. “I think that’s how she kept the place, actually.”

Doyle nodded slightly and pointed to a chair near the window that was overturned. “That’s something maybe.”

Penelope’s heart sank as she stared at the chair. “Maybe you’re right.”

Doyle looked in the sink and pulled open the refrigerator, his eyes roving over the takeout cartons and a bottle of vodka chilling in the freezer. “Not a health nut, I see.”

“Detective,” Penelope said. “Someone is holding her captive. We have to find her.”

“Get a team down here,” he said to the uniformed officer. “Let’s look for prints, question the rest of the girls on the floor.”

The officer nodded sharply and stepped past Penelope out into the hallway, pulling his phone out to make a call.

“This one isn’t like the others then,” Doyle said. “If there’s a connection. We haven’t seen a photograph of the victim before the...end. Actually I still haven’t seen the photo.” He gave Penelope a stern glance.

“It disappeared,” Penelope said. “I swear I saw her.”

Doyle raised his hand and showed her his palm. “I believe you. I just don’t know what this guy is after. Killing a dancer, killing an older homeless woman, kidnapping another dancer, the friend of the murdered girl. Do you see what I’m getting at here?”

“They don’t match each other,” Penelope said. “But they’re related. Abigail and Elspeth through their friendship.”

“And Gabby Bainbridge through the weapon,” Doyle said.

“And Bainbridge connects the theater too,” Penelope added.

“One big puzzle with too many clues to make any sense. It doesn’t fit.”

“Don’t forget the attack on Armand,” Penelope said. “Another box ticked for the theater.”

Doyle put his hands on his hips and looked around the apartment. “The last thing I want is another dead girl on my watch.”