I woke up to red. Red, oozing liquid that smeared as I jerked away in horror, my low moan becoming a sad laugh.

Pizza sauce. I had actually fallen asleep on top of my pizza.

I put my fingers to my cheek, and they came away with red and white goo. Clearly, I had gotten a nice sleep mask of pizza.

I staggered out the door and down the hallway to the bathroom, where I cleaned off my dismal-looking face, and then stumbled back to my office and into my computer chair.

My cell phone screen displayed some worried messages from my friend Tiffany (hey! how are things??) and my mom (Haven’t heard from you. How are you?). The latest text I stared at for a good minute, trying to collect my thoughts. How was I, really?

My gaze flicked back to my now-blank-screened computer. It was a good summary of what all my harried searching last night had produced: nothing. From the scant information that ‘Russell’ guy had given me, I’d gotten nothing, and now I had nothing more to go on.

I switched back to Tiffany’s message and suddenly knew exactly what to do.

Kyle picked up on the first ring. After all, he was a good friend. He had to be, since he was married to my best friend.

“Alex, it’s early. How are you?”

The smirking clock read 7 a.m. Whoops.

“Ha, yeah, but I’m glad you’re up,” I said. “I’m okay. Finally got a client, but this one’s a real head-scratcher. Could you run a search for me?”

“Yeah, sure. But, Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you thought about what Tiffany said?”

“Yeah, I…” My voice trailed off as my gaze did too, settling on the art print Tiffany had gotten me a few weeks ago.

It was on my wall. Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère. It was as big as the original, bigger than my windows, but not too big. It was just big enough to suck me into the subject’s soulless stare, her somber-painted dissatisfaction.

“Come on, Combs, you love art, you love me—this is perfect!” Tiffany had declared when she’d given it to me, along with the job offer to work at her gallery.

And she had been right, almost. I did love art, and she was my best friend in the world, and yet her job offer wasn’t perfect. Any job where I wasn’t a private investigator, sleuthing out clues, unearthing secrets, couldn’t be perfect. It just couldn’t be. It was a week ago that I had said no, which had probably been another mistake.

“…She really just wants the best for you,” Kyle was saying. I could almost see his big, white teeth glinting as he said it, his eyes half-lidded, already lost in his calm, talking somnolence. If I’d let him go on, he would have talked for hours. Tiffany too; they both were talkers through and through.

“Kyle,” I said, interrupting, “please, I just really need this search done.”

A pause, and then: “All right, okay. What name am I putting in?”

“Brock,” I said. “His name is Brock Anderson. He has a scar on his left eyebrow.”

“All right. Let me enter the name into the system now.”

After another pause, I asked him, “Do you ever miss it, Kyle?”

“Miss what?”

“The cadets. That last year—Officer Brigley. The excitement.”

He exhaled; I could almost hear his wistful smile on the other end. I didn’t blame him. It had been over 10 years since we had been in the cadets together, and yet sometimes it felt like yesterday: the week-long camping that felt like months, singing campfire songs and tree climbing, the wild rush as our canoe plunged through the rapids.

“Yeah actually, a bit. There’s lots happening at the station most times, but even then, now that you mention it, yeah. Yeah, I do. Why?”

“Because I never do, Kyle. Even though I loved the cadets, I always felt like something was missing. That something was this—sleuthing out, the thrill of the hunt. I can’t stop being a private eye, Kyle. No. I’ll do this job until it drives me to bankruptcy or worse.”

“All right, all right, Alex. I’ll tell Tiffany you’ve made up your mind, though we both know that won’t do much good and—huh.”

“What?”

“We have a file on your guy, Brock Anderson, the guy with the scar. Looks like he’s been suspected in a bunch of things, but he’s never been proven guilty or caught. Actually, we’ve got a reported location on him now: Nederland.”

“Nederland. That’s…”

“Just a 30-minute, 40 tops, drive away.”

“Yeah. You’re right. So why haven’t you guys picked him up yourself?”

“Got bigger fish to fry. We have this crazy multiple murder case that has everyone in the office up in arms.”

“Ah, okay. Could you send me an email with the picture of him so I know just who to look for? And thanks, Kyle.”

“Sure. Any time. And, Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“You haven’t seen…him, have you?”

“Who?” I said, though really, I knew already. I finally said the cursed name in a hush. “Charlie?”

“Yeah. He’s…well, he’s back in town. I just thought you might—”

“No, Kyle. No way. We are over, long over. He hasn’t contacted me, and even if he did, I wouldn’t want to see him. Not ever.”

Kyle didn’t say anything, though I could tell he wasn’t convinced. I didn’t blame him. Charlie and I had been on and off so many times that I’d lost count.

Finally, he said, “Just be careful, eh?”

“Yeah, yeah. You know me.”

I hung up and stared at the phone for a minute. Kyle had always been like an older brother to me, constantly worrying and looking out for me. But for the first time, I couldn’t quite laugh off his fears.

I clicked on the computer screen, where my former search for “Russell Snow Boulder” was showing no results. I should’ve asked Kyle about Russell Snow too, though I was secretly glad I had forgotten.

I went to my email, clicked on the attachment, and printed out the disappointingly low-quality photo.

Taking the still-warm paper into my hands, I stared into the eyes of the mysterious man I was hunting, who, in every line of his face, clearly had something to hide.

Yes, something told me this was no ordinary case.