30 CONNOR
“I knew you were a fucking mistake in Sam’s life!” Ahmed lunged at me and I shoved him back. The entire department stared at the two of us through his office window.
“You pissed? So am I!” I snarled. “But I’m only here as a courtesy, Ahmed. Because I know you have resources and aren’t afraid to use them to keep tabs on Sam.”
“It’s for her own good.”
“I don’t give a damn about your sick obsession with the girl right now. If it helps find her, use it!”
Ahmed straightened his shirt and sat down in front of the computer.
“You had a deal with me,” he grumbled.
“Yeah. And I was trying to keep her safe. That was my part. That’s why I went after the bastard who attacked her while you were busy playing interrogator,” I shot back.
“The phone’s off. Lost the signal about 1,600 feet from where you last saw her.”
“Yeah,” I said impatiently.
Ahmed’s phone buzzed on the desk and he answered. I didn’t know much Arabic, but I could read that body language from a mile away.
“What is it?” I asked when he hung up and grabbed his gun from the drawer.
“They found something near where Sam’s phone pinged last.”
“Someone will be here soon to escort you out.”
“I’m not letting you—”
“I don’t give a damn what you will or won’t let happen, Ahmed.”
“This isn’t your hunt anymore, detective.”
“Try and stop me,” I snarled, and Ahmed paused to consider. “You know no matter what you do, I’ll still be a thorn in your side.”
He stared at me coldly, fighting against the certainty that I’d find a way to get involved anyway.
“Out of respect for your years of service, I’ll let you tag along as an observer.”
I didn’t respond. My mind kept replaying the last few days with Samantha, torturing me with the possibility of seeing her on a cold slab. It felt like my blood had been replaced with lava. I could feel it scorching through my veins.
“Understood, Detective Connor?”
“Whatever.”
We drove in silence through the city streets. By now it was well past midnight and the festival crowds had dispersed. We stopped about half a mile from where we’d lost Sam’s signal. As soon as we got out, two patrol officers approached.
“Evening, detective,” the officer greeted Ahmed. “We found her belongings tossed near a dumpster.”
The man held up the evidence bag and I recognized one of the earrings she’d been wearing, but it was the bloodstain on her ID that hit me like a punch to the gut.
“Some teenagers found the girl—kids who come here to drink and burn stuff.”
“Girl?” I asked.
“Nobody told me about a body.”
The first officer pointed toward some ruins up ahead.
“While we were waiting for you, some kids came running out of there, scared out of their minds. We went to check it out and found the girl… it’s bad. Brace yourselves.”
As I walked close behind Ahmed, I kept picturing Samantha’s smile, over and over. If the image of her dead was going to haunt me, I needed to make sure it would be eclipsed by that mischievous grin.
When we arrived, the girl was covered head to toe with some patterned fabric they must have found nearby.
She was propped against a pile of rubble.
The tip of her left hand stuck out from under the fabric, fingertips raw and caked with blood and dirt, like she’d been digging or clawing at something.
I swallowed hard. The air felt like it weighed two tons in my lungs.
“Did anyone touch the body?” Ahmed knelt beside her and gripped the edge of the fabric.
“No. Soon as we found her, we covered her up and called for backup,” said the second officer, unable to look at the body.
Ahmed hesitated. He was just as nervous as I was, which only made me more uneasy.
When the fabric pulled back, it seemed to take an eternity. Short brown hair appeared first. Pale skin, smeared with blood and grime. My stomach churned at the sight of the face—covered in blood, slashed beyond recognition.
One of the officers turned away, gasping for air. When the fabric fell away completely, exposing the young woman’s body, I couldn’t contain my relief—despite the situation. It was still a body, but it wasn’t hers.
“It’s not her,” Ahmed stated. Did he know her the way I did? It felt wrong to even wonder about that now. “But whoever did this—there’s a lot of rage here.”
The young woman had deep gashes on her face, defensive wounds on her arms, and abdominal wounds that matched what we’d seen on Bob.
“May I?” I asked Ahmed, who was examining her.
“Go ahead, but don’t touch anything until forensics gets here.”
I pulled the fabric aside and used a stick to gently shift her fingers, getting a better look at the damage.
There was dirt, but not the kind from around here or scattered over the blood. This was black soil. Under her nails—some kind of blue paint and concrete.
Her wounds weren't hesitant like Bob's superficial ones. They were all deep, chaotic, and erratic. Rage and loss of control.
The forensics team approached and asked me to step back. While they documented the scene, I observed the surroundings. She definitely wasn't killed here. She'd been carefully arranged in this ruin. One of thousands in this country. Why?
Ahmed pulled his phone from his pocket and typed something. A moment later, it beeped with a notification.
“What is it?”
“One of my contacts saw Sam get into a patrol car minutes after you realized she was missing.”
“Who was the officer?”
“They didn't know.”
“One of your men found Sam and didn't report it on the radio?”
“My men wouldn't hurt Sam. They know her and they know how much… I care.”
“Unless it wasn't one of yours,” I said, almost to myself. “Sam was scared. I don't think she'd willingly get into a car—even a police car—without me nearby… Or you.”
“Unless they offered her an answer…”
“What are you talking about?”
“This morning I got an alert that someone tried to access Sam's parents' file.”
“Why do you have an alert for that?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. “Forget it. Get to the point.”
“I thought it might be some teenager trying to solve cold cases. But what if it wasn't? What if someone was setting a trap?”
“Then Sam wouldn't put up a fight.”
“I need the car keys.”
“I'm not giving you my car.”
“And you can't leave the crime scene,” I explained, pointing to the body. “Here or back in the States, we're cops. We know what needs to be done.”
“I'm sure she's safe with one of ours,” he insisted.
“Look!” I snapped. “Ammit is twenty steps ahead of us. Look what she did to this poor woman. You want to risk the next call being about Sam?”
Nothing mattered more than Samantha's safety, and he knew it. For both of us.
“I'll be there as soon as I finish here,” he said, defeated. “You need to promise me you won't do anything without letting me know.”
“I promise I'll do whatever it takes to find her… and keep you in the loop.” He tossed the keys and I caught them midair. Then I tore off toward the antique shop.
I wanted so badly to be wrong. I wanted all those voices screaming in my head to be lying. But I'd never felt so behind. Shit, I was so screwed.