Chapter 20
Twenty
MADDEN
“What if he had the wrong woman?”
The question landed in the cramped kitchen like a door slamming.
For a beat, even the coffee pot seemed to hush, the soft burble of it suddenly too loud and too intimate, the sound of normal life intruding on a conversation about dark things that shouldn’t exist in a place with fresh flowers outside the window.
Rosa’s face stilled. Guarded.
Rios didn’t move at all, but tension came off him in a wave—a sort of heat that lived in the jaw and the hands.
I hated myself for speaking the question aloud. Not because it wasn’t possible, but because saying it made the world tilt. Including every assumption we’d made in following Priya’s trail.
Rosa glanced toward the window, as if checking whether the street had changed while we’d been inside. When her gaze came back to me, it had sharpened into something hard and bright. “You think she was taken because of me.”
“No.” The word came out too fast. Too emphatic. Like I could shove the idea away by force. I forced myself to breathe. “No. I think she may have been taken because of… the conditions. From behind, in the dark, with a hoodie and a hat and someone who doesn’t care enough to learn a name—”
Rosa’s hands curled on the edge of the table. “It is still because of me.”
Rios’s chair scraped back half an inch. “No,” he insisted, voice low. “It’s because of him.”
Rosa’s eyes flicked to him, something like relief flashing there before it got crushed back down under survival instincts.
I swallowed. My throat tightened, as if my body was trying to reject the air.
“Rosa,” I said carefully, “the reason this matters isn’t blame. It’s scope.”
She frowned slightly.
“If Priya was a mistake,” I continued, “then she was taken by someone who had a target in mind. A plan.” Which meant we needed to determine whether the target was Rosa specifically or simply someone like her. The answer would change the entire trajectory of this investigation.
I forced my voice to steady. “We need to ask you some direct questions. And you can tell us to go to hell at any point.”
The weight of Rios’s gaze was almost palpable, but he didn’t interrupt, which I took as tacit permission to continue with my line of questioning.
Rosa didn’t smile. “Ask.”
“Has anyone ever threatened you?” I asked. “Outside of work—on the street, near your home, on your way somewhere—anyone ever told you to watch yourself, to keep quiet, to stop walking a certain route?”
Rosa shook her head. “No.”
“Have you ever had someone try to get you alone before?” I asked. “Not like what happened behind the bar—maybe someone offering you a ride, someone waiting near your door, someone you noticed more than once?”
Her mouth tightened. “Men look. Men speak. I ignore.”
“And have you ignored anyone recently who didn’t like being ignored?” I pressed.
Rosa’s eyes flashed, irritation crossing her face. “I ignore all men. It saves time.”
Rios made a sound that might’ve been a laugh in a different universe. It wasn’t here.
I nodded once. “Fair. But I need to know if there’s anyone who might have fixated on you.”
Rosa’s gaze slid away for a second. Back to the window. Back to me.
“There is a man,” she said slowly, like each word had to pass through a filter of risk. “I see him sometimes.”
“Where?” Rios asked immediately.
“On the street. Near the marina. Sometimes near the market.” She hesitated. “Once, maybe twice, near my building.”
My pulse kicked.
“Not at Home Port?” I asked.
Rosa shook her head. “No. I do not work out front. Customers do not see me. I do not see him come inside.”
That mattered. A lot.
“Describe him,” Rios said.
Rosa stared at the table. “Older. Not old. Maybe… late thirties? Forty. Hair short. Always clean. He wears nice shoes. Like he is not from here.”
Not from here.
That phrase always mattered on islands.
“Facial hair or clean shaven?” Rios asked.
Rosa gestured to the center of her face. “Skinny beard here.”
“A goatee?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Does he speak to you?” I asked.
“No, he smiles.” Rosa’s lip curled. “Like he knows something I don’t.”
Rios leaned forward, forearms on the table, posture controlled but coiled. “Did you see him the night you were attacked?”
Rosa shut her eyes briefly. “I do not know. It was dark. He came from behind.”
“Okay.” I kept my tone even. “That’s something, but it doesn’t mean it’s him.”
“It could be anyone.” Rosa’s voice was tight. “That is the point. Anyone can watch you. Anyone can follow you. And no one notices.”
The truth of that ached like a bruise.
“What about your life here?” I asked softly. “Do you have family on the island? A roommate?”
Rosa’s mouth flattened. “No family. I live alone.”
“Friends who check on you?” I asked.
Her gaze lifted, direct and unflinching. “Friends are dangerous.”
I nodded like I understood, because I did.
Friends asked questions. Friends noticed absences. Friends created ties that could be pulled. And for certain groups, that posed a potential threat. Or at least leverage.
“All right,” I said. “Let me ask the question another way. If you didn’t show up to work for a week… would anyone report you missing?”
A beat.
Rosa looked down at her hands again. Her fingers tightened. “No,” she said simply. “They would say I left.”
My chest went tight.
Rios’s hand flexed where it lay on the edge of the table.
“Okay,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone.
This likely wasn’t about Rosa personally but about the place she occupied in society. Disenfranchised. On the fringes. A woman of color. Alone. Someone who likely wouldn’t be missed. My gut screamed all of this spoke to scope.
Someone had potentially nabbed Priya, believing her to be Rosa. A mistake. But there’d been no body found. So maybe they believed she’d “do” for their purposes.
What was the likelihood that she’d been the only one?
Slim, to my mind.
I forced myself to keep going because I didn’t have the luxury of spiraling. “Rosa, you mentioned you’ve heard things.”
Her gaze snapped up. “I did not say that.”
“You didn’t,” I amended. “But you didn’t say you hadn’t.” It was a guess. A good one, based on how Rosa’s expression sharpened with suspicion.
I watched her compute the quick mental math of whether talking to us was worse than staying silent.
Rios didn’t push. He didn’t interrupt the flow of the questioning I’d picked up. He sat solid and still and let the silence do what it did.
I had always been good at silence in court. Let the witness fill it. Let the jury feel it.
Rosa’s throat worked. “There are rumors. Not… official. Just… women say things.”
“What things?” I asked.
Rosa shook her head once, frustrated. “Be careful. Don’t walk alone. Don’t take the back streets. Don’t go home late.”
All standard warnings most women received at some point or another. But this seemed like more.
“Because of this?” Rios asked, voice quieter now.
Rosa hesitated before nodding once. “Because sometimes women go and do not come back.”
My pulse stuttered. “How often?”
Rosa’s eyes narrowed like the question itself was na?ve. “How would I know? We do not put it on Facebook.”
I swallowed. “Does anyone talk about where they go? If there’s a place? A person? A car?”
Rosa shook her head. “Just… gone.”
My stomach rolled.
This was exactly how predators thrived. Not through invisibility. Through disinterest. Through the world deciding a certain kind of missing person wasn’t a problem worth solving.
Rios’s voice cut in, controlled but edged. “Has anyone said it happened to someone they knew?”
Rosa nodded slowly. “One girl. Seasonal. She worked at the hotel. Not long. She stopped answering her phone. Her roommate said she left in the night.”
“And no one checked?” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my tone.
Rosa’s gaze sharpened. “Checked with who? Police? They ask for papers. They ask for names. They ask if she used drugs. They ask if she had a boyfriend. They say maybe she went with him.”
I pressed my lips together so hard they hurt.
“And another,” Rosa said quietly. “A girl who cleaned houses. People said she return to her country.”
“But she didn’t,” Rios said.
Rosa’s shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. “I do not know.”
But her face said she did. Or at least, she believed she did.
I took a slow breath and forced myself back into control. Rage didn’t help. Rage made promises.
“And these rumors,” I asked, “do they stay within your community? Undocumented workers, seasonal people—”
Rosa’s mouth tightened. “Not only.”
My heartbeat ticked faster.
“Not only,” I repeated.
Rosa’s gaze flicked to the door, as if she expected someone to walk in because she’d said too much.
“Girls who come for summer. The students, or sometimes the tourists. People say they leave. But…” Her voice roughened. “Some girls do not leave.”
My scalp prickled.
Priya.
Not the first. Just the one who didn’t fit the easy story because someone got careless and made a mistake.
I held Rosa’s gaze. “Is there anything else you’ve heard? Anything that comes up more than once?”
Rosa hesitated. “They say it happens to women who are alone.”
Rios’s jaw clenched.
“Alone.” I echoed, the word tasting like rot.
Rosa looked down again, fingers twisting in her shirt hem the way someone did when they were trying not to cry.
“Rosa,” I said gently, “you did the right thing telling us any of this.”
Her laugh was sharp and bitter. “The right thing is expensive.”
I felt that settle into my bones, because she was right.
“I know,” I said softly.
Rios pushed back from the table, not abruptly but decisively, like he had to move or he’d break something. He paced two steps in the tiny kitchen, then stopped, hands on his hips, staring at nothing.
His restraint was almost worse than anger.
Rosa watched him with wary eyes. “What?”
Rios turned back to her, expression controlled. “What I’m hearing is that even if we find the right questions, we have nowhere to take the answers without the risk of getting you hurt.”
Rosa didn’t answer. Because the silence was the answer.
I stood slowly, forcing my body to obey me. “We can’t promise you anything, but we can promise we’ll keep looking. We won’t forget this.”
Rosa’s eyes met mine, and for the first time there was something like emotion there—something that wanted to believe. “People forget.” The words weren’t unkind. Merely a statement of fact.
“Not this time.” I meant it enough to scare myself.
Rios stepped closer to the table, lowering his voice. “If you hear anything else—anything—don’t tell Miguel to follow us again.”
Miguel’s name made Rosa glance toward the door.
“Tell him to leave word with Kelsey,” Rios continued. “Or have her call—” He caught himself. He didn’t want her to have our numbers. A number could be found. Traced. Used. “No. Just… tell Kelsey to find me. At the marina. Quiet.”
Rosa nodded once.
I hesitated, then added, “And if you feel unsafe—if you see that man again, the one with the nice shoes—tell Kelsey. Tell Miguel. Tell someone.”
Rosa’s mouth twisted. “And do what? Stay inside forever?”
I didn’t have an answer that wasn’t insulting, so I didn’t give one. “Just… don’t be alone if you can help it.”
Rosa’s eyes hardened. “Women are always alone.”
The words followed us out the door like a curse.
Outside, the sun hit me full in the face, bright and uncaring. The neighborhood looked exactly as it had when we arrived—quiet, lived-in, with small signs of pride tucked into worn structures. Hanging baskets, a painted mailbox, a child’s chalk drawing on the sidewalk.
Normal.
That normality felt obscene.
We walked for a block without speaking.
“We’re still getting breakfast,” Rios announced.
It took me a beat to understand what he meant.
“What?” I asked stupidly.
He glanced at me, expression unreadable. “I promised you breakfast.”
The words were simple. The intent wasn’t. He was giving us an action because otherwise we’d stand in the street and let the fear eat us alive.
“I’m not hungry.” How could I possibly think of food with all the implications swirling in my head?
“Yeah, you are.”
I huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if my throat wasn’t tight. “You’re insufferable.”
“Carrera trait.” As if to settle the matter, he cupped my elbow and angled us back toward the boardwalk, toward the tourist part of town that pretended nothing bad could happen under all that bright sunlight. As we walked, my mind kept snapping back to Rosa’s answer.
No one would report her missing. They’d say she left. And if she left, no one had to look.
Something cold and hard settled behind my ribs. This wasn’t only about Priya anymore.
It probably never had been.