Prologue
BECCA
Glaring at the email that just arrived in my inbox, I count to ten, trying to rein in my rage.
I know I should respond to the chief of Memphis Police in a calm, rational manner. I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to figure out how to move around the world appropriately. And I’m pretty sure what I want to say to him is not what anyone would consider appropriate.
I’m going to do it anyway, because I don’t freaking care anymore. I’ve tried everything I can think of to make them want to find my sister.
To bring her home.
I’ve called. I’ve emailed. I’ve gone to the station in person. Filed reports and made complaints. I’ve handed over information and offered names, thinking if I could make their job easier, they’d actually do it.
Wrong.
So, at my wit’s end, I may have written a strongly-worded email to the chief of police before I had my coffee this morning.
Was it as nice as it could have been? Probably not.
Did I maybe insult the chief and the entire force? Likely.
Do I regret it? Not a chance.
“Idiot.” I scowl at the condescending, mansplaining, asshole-ish response one more time before typing out a single line response and slamming the screen on my laptop closed.
I wanted to believe the Memphis Police were just inept. Possibly lazy. But I’m getting more and more worried that’s not the reason they’re blowing me off.
I’m starting to think maybe they’re protecting someone.
It would make sense. I know who’s responsible for my sister’s disappearance, and he’s certainly law-enforcement adjacent.
Which is what made me a little hesitant to go after him myself.
I’m smart, but I’m not exactly dangerous. Hell, I’m barely tall enough to ride most roller coasters, so thinking I’m capable of taking on what I’m beginning to suspect is a human trafficking ring run by politicians and men in power would be ridiculous.
I need help. At the very least someone to cheer me on. Most people would rely on their friends for that. Unfortunately, I don’t really have any of those anymore.
But, while I don’t have any close friends, I do have plenty of ideas. And one of them has me picking up my phone to send a message to a woman I found during my search for my sister.
I open Instagram and pull up the account I’ve been secretly stalking since Amanda disappeared. Audrey Hawthorne is the estranged wife of the man who lured my little sister into a false sense of safety before dragging her into the darkness of his depravity. I don’t know if I can trust her.
But I’m about to find out.