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I scrolled through the latest entry on Addison Miles’s website, my irritation expanding with every sentence.
The man had wasted no time in publishing his blog post about a madman slinking through the shadows, hunting for prostitutes. He even sprinkled a few references to Jack the Ripper throughout the piece, drawing parallels that didn’t exist.
And who, outside of an officer approaching retirement, is investigating these crimes against the working women of Manhattan? Holly Cross, a supposed survivor of kidnapping herself. You might recognize her name from some of my previous articles, “All Is Not Wells with This Trial” and “Cross-Examined.”
I rolled my eyes. The man was witty with his article titles, I’d give him that.
Ms. Cross is currently employed by JGH Investigations, a private investigative firm in East Harlem, but she couldn’t provide any information during my interview with her, which suggests she’s either withholding information or has no leads on this man terrorizing the women on our streets. I don’t know about everyone else in this city, but I question the qualifications of the private investigators working these cases.
I groaned and dropped my forehead on the carpet. Did this man have a particular dislike for me, or did he drag everyone through the mud?
Riley whined and licked my ear sympathetically, and I turned my face toward him with a sigh. “I don’t hate him. I don’t. I just really dislike . . . everything about him.”
Addison Miles had no interest in the truth, and he would publish anything that increased his readership. But why did he have to mention the agency? We were never going to get any clients if people thought we were too inept to connect two dots.
The phone rang in my office, and I lifted my head to cast it a wary look. What were the chances it was a potential client after this article posted? There were already six hundred views and a rapidly growing list of comments.
I checked the time on my computer screen—well past closing—and decided to let the call go to voice mail.
I perused the comments on Addison’s post, hoping someone might leave a clue. There were a few readers who shared conspiracies, a handful of people who left less than supportive comments about me, and then there were the rare but disturbing statements like “Prostitution is a sin, and the payment for sin is death. DEATH.”
I made note of the semihomicidal and scary religious-sounding statements. I perked up at the next comment.
There’s this guy who trolls the neighborhoods in a white van with a cross painted on the side. He chats up the girls and gives them snacks and those religious booklets, but I’ve seen the way he looks at them, like he’s disgusted.
I’d forgotten about the van across the street from Cami’s apartment. That was the vehicle that was missing when we came out of the building.
I read the message again, and something clicked in the back of my mind. Rob mentioned a man with Scripture pamphlets crossing paths with Cami Monday night, and the man I met at the food pantry had chattered on about his mission in poor communities.
What was his name? I rummaged around in the cobwebbed part of my brain where names were stored, but came up empty.
Opening my phone, I started a text to Jordan with the new possibility, but someone rapped on the front door.
Riley’s head snapped up from his paws, and he rose to his feet, but he relaxed when he recognized the young woman standing on the sidewalk.
Hope chewed at a fingernail as she waited, her leg jiggling. She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on at the hospital, and exhaustion and tears made the skin around her eyes puffy.
Pushing up from the floor, I unlocked the door and opened it. “What happened? Is Cami okay?”
She forced herself to stop gnawing at her nail and gripped her phone in both hands. “She ain’t awake yet. I was hoping you might have like two seconds so we could talk.”
“Sure, come on in.” I secured the door after she entered and walked back to the reception counter. “You want some tea or hot chocolate? I can make some.”
“Nah, I ain’t gonna be here long.”
A dog barked outside, and Riley trotted over to the door. He cocked his head curiously when the bark came again.
I tucked my fingers into the back pockets of my jeans. “What’s up?”
Hope blew out a breath. “I was desperate when I came here asking for help, and you were super nice, but . . . you can drop the case or whatever. Cami’s fine now, and I just want things to get back to normal.”
Her request caught me by surprise. “Cami’s not fine, and whoever did this to her is still out there. We need to find him.”
“No offense, but you two couldn’t even find Cami, and you knew you were looking for her. You’re never gonna find somebody whose name and face you don’t even know.”
“Jordan’s tracking down a lead, and I’m—”
“Just let it go, Holly,” she snapped, then sighed. “I’m sorry, but I need all this to be over.”
“Then help us figure out who he is so it can be over. There’s some connection between this man and the three of you.”
“The three of us?”
“Cami, Dorina, and you.”
“Nobody tried to grab me.”
“We don’t think he was driving through your neighborhood because he was interested in your son. We think he was there for you.”
“You two and your theories.” She shook her head. “Even if you’re right, I can take care of myself. Dorina’s got Clayton, and Cami’s got a cop at her door, so . . . we’re good. You did your good deed trying to help a lost cause. Now you can move on to a client who can pay you.”
“Hope—”
“See you around, Nancy Drew.” She unlocked the front door and shoved her way out.
I stared after her in confusion. Her change of attitude didn’t make sense to me, and its irrationality kindled a spark of frustration. Was this how Marx felt when I made an emotional decision he didn’t agree with?
An annoyed breath escaped my lips. I couldn’t let the conversation end there. Whether she wanted our help or not, I couldn’t let her walk away without explaining the risks to her safety. This wasn’t a threat that would go away if she ignored it.
I touched Riley’s head. “I’ll be right back.” I threw open the door and jogged to the alley Hope had taken the other night.
It was empty.
I hesitated to follow, but I wouldn’t be gone long, and Riley would guard the agency from burglars. I sprinted to the end of the alley and paused to take in both directions.
Movement in the shadows drew me to the right, and I turned onto a side street. The cold night air bit at my skin through my sweater, and I rubbed at the goose bumps on my arms. I should’ve grabbed my jacket from the wall hook.
“Hope?”
A flash of pink receded around a corner. Where was she going? Surely she wasn’t planning to return to Brushwick tonight.
I watched for threats as I followed at a more cautious pace, praying I wouldn’t get mugged. I had nothing to give a mugger unless they wanted my shoes.
The sound of a door latching made my heart skip. Had that come from the alley Hope turned into? A taxi would’ve waited for her in the parking lot, not in a dark alley near the end of the block. Who was she getting into a car with?
I broke into a run, determined to catch her before the vehicle could pull away. I barely rounded the corner when a patch of slick newspaper snatched my feet out from under me, and I crashed to the ground with a yelp.
Pain radiated up my tailbone, and I rubbed at the small of my back as I gathered my legs beneath me.
My breath caught at the horrifying sight in front of me. A white utility van sat ten feet away, the front end facing the other direction. My eyes grazed the license plate before settling on a round puncture in the rear left door . . . about the size of a bullet.
This wasn’t just any van. It was the van.
One of Clayton’s shots might’ve hit the hubcap, but the other one must’ve hit the door while it was open.
Fear pounded through my veins. Was Hope restrained and gagged in the back? Had the man been waiting here to grab her when she walked by?
A part of me wanted to rush forward and throw open the doors to rescue her, even as the sensible part of my brain screamed that I was in danger.
If I was right about what happened, the kidnapper was still here. Before I could decide whether to attempt a rescue or flee and call the police with the van description and license plate, a body slammed into my back.
An arm locked around my waist, and a hand clamped over my mouth to muffle the scream that burned up my throat.