Knox
“The most confused you will ever get is when you try to convince your heart and spirit of something your mind knows is a lie.”
―Shannon L. Alder
WHAT THE HELL?
Knox takes the chair in front of the computer and gives himself a silent berating.
Had he really just said that? What business was it of his if Emory Benson dated her boss?
None.
So what was up with the hair-trigger reaction?
He hears her footsteps behind him and decides he’s not up for answering his own questions.
Without looking over his shoulder, he points at the computer screen and says, “There. That’s your sister, right?”
She steps in close, leaning forward to stare at the screen, and then, with the breath catching in her throat, “Yes. Yes, it is.”
Her voice is so low, he can barely hear the response. He glances at her face, sees that all color has drained from it. “I’ve been able to spot her and Grace in four different frames. I’ve also noticed the man in the gray baseball cap in three of those frames.”
He can feel her stiffen beside him. “That’s not a coincidence, is it?” she asks.
“Probably not,” he says.
He clicks on the man’s face, enlarges the screen. “His features distort when I zoom in. The only thing I can make out is the logo on his hat.”
“What is it?” she asks.
“Carlos Garcia.”
“Is that a brand?”
I click over to the webpage where I’ve already found it online and read, “Streetwear brand Carlos Garcia offers the coolest everyday wear for kids looking to make a statement. T-shirts, jeans, backpacks make up a line of highly desirable clothing.”
She visibly swallows and says, “Why would he be following them?”
“It could be a coincidence,” he says.
“But you don’t think so?”
He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, and then, “Probably not.”
“How can we find out who he is?” she asks, panic now edging her voice. “Is there some kind of facial recognition software—”
“Not with photos this blurred,” he says, shaking his head.
“What then?” she pleads, pressing her hand to his shoulder.
He looks up at her, sees the warring emotions of hope and despair and struggles with which one to encourage her to latch on to. “I’ll work on the hat label. I’ll look into the DC stores that might carry it. Pay them a visit and see if anyone recognizes the guy in the photo.”
Hope flares in her eyes, despite my unwillingness to build this into something more than it might end up being.
“Have you already looked up the stores?”
“I found three,” he says. “All in downtown DC”
“Can we go now?” she asks.
“Maybe I should do this on my own.”
“Please,” she says. “I want to go. I’ll go crazy if I stay here waiting to hear something.”
“It could end up being nothing,” he says.
“Detective Helmer. This is the first glimmer of even a hint at what might have happened to Mia and Grace. You don’t need to protect me from hope. I realize how fragile it is.”
He stares up at her, fully aware that he should refuse to let her go. There’s something about her that interferes with his judgment, the way police radar scramblers mix a portion of the signal with background clutter, confusing the computer inside the radar gun. He’s not sure if his own signals are strictly about the job at hand or something they shouldn’t have anything at all to do with. But as strong as the voice telling him not to take her is, he finds himself saying, “Most of the leads we follow don’t pan out. I need to know you understand that.”
“I understand.”
He picks up the images and addresses he’s already printed out and says, “Then let’s go.”