“Go ahead,” he says.
I walk across the room to the bulletin board of pictures.
“When I was here the last time, I noticed this particular picture. I wasn't sure when I first saw it, but I did some research and got some help, and now I'm sure about it.” I take the picture off the wall and carry it over to the table where I set it down and point to the blonde woman. “Her.”
“What do you mean?” he shrugs.
“Who is that?” I ask.
He shakes his head and shrugs again.
“I don't know.” He picks up the picture and flips it over, then puts it back. “There's no caption. It must just be somebody who was at that conference. “
“You don't know who she is?”
“No,” he frowns. “Should I?”
“I don't know,” I say, letting out a breath. “But I think so. You probably remember the name, Greg Bailey.”
“Yes,” he says. “Of course, I do. He disappeared for two years, then was found dead after reappearing.”
“He was kidnapped and murdered,” I clarify. “And the only clue as to what happened to him is a video of him walking out of the hospital with a blonde woman.” I point my finger hard on the picture. “This blonde woman.”
He looks at the picture incredulously. “It could have been anybody.”
“No,” I say. “Trust me; I have seen her face more times than I can possibly tell you. I have watched that video over and over. I have scoured every single still. I know her face. I knew it when I saw the picture up on that bulletin board; I just didn't want to admit it. This is that woman who was with Greg when he left the hospital. And nobody knows who she is.”
“I remember seeing the footage,” he says. “It was on the news.” He says it like it's a revelation, but I just nod. "She never surfaced? I just assumed she would have shown up eventually and explained why she was with him."
"No," I say. "She didn't."
"We've been trying to figure out who she is for the last year," Dean tells him.
"She doesn't seem to be threatening Lakyn in any way, or concerned about being photographed," Noah notes, tilting his head to get a closer look at the picture.
"Do people frequently act suspicious right before they commit a crime?" I ask.
"So, now you think it's a crime? I thought your theory is that she just walked away," he says.
"Right now, theories don't matter. What matters is what we know. And we know that Lakyn is, in its simplest definition, missing. And that this woman, whoever she is, was near both her and Greg very shortly before she disappeared, and he died. It's enough to create some questions."
“We'll put out a call for her, ask her to voluntarily come forward to speak with us. That's the best we can do,” he offers.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Hopefully, we'll get something out of it,” he says. "So far, nothing is getting us anywhere."
We stay at the police station long enough for Dean to tell Detective White about his conversation with Lilith Duprey, then get back in Dean's car to go to the hotel. As soon as we drive into the parking lot, I see my car and my hands clench.
“You have to be kidding me,” I say.
“What is it?” Dean asks.
He parks next to my car, and I get out, staring incredulously at the flat tires on the passenger side.
“Look at the tires,” I point.
I run my fingers over them, finding a deep slit at the top. Walking around to the other side, I find both of them flat as well.
“They were slashed,” Dean says. “Somebody did this on purpose.”
“Give me your keys,” I tell him.
“What?”
“Your keys.”
“Why do you want my keys?” he scrunches up his face but starts reaching in his pocket anyway.
“Because I can't drive my car right now,” I say.
“Where are you going?” he asks, finally tossing them over to me.
“I have the urge to do some banking,” I tell him.
“I'm coming with you,” he says. “Sam will kill me if you get arrested your first day here.”
Millie Haynes sees me coming as soon as I step foot in the bank. She has no intention of letting me even get so far as the tellers and comes striding right toward us. Her jaw set, her eyes flashing, she has lost all pretense of caring how we feel.
"I thought I told you to stop coming here and harassing my employees," she says.
"Actually, you said you didn't have anything else to say to us, and that you didn't think your customers would feel very comfortable banking with the police and FBI around. You didn't mention anything about harassing your employees. You definitely didn't say anything about slashing my tires," I say.
"Oh, lord," Dean mutters under his breath beside me.
Millie scoffs. "You honestly think I have the time to go do something like that? And why would I slash your tires?"
"Interesting order you chose for those two questions," I fire back.
"Look, I don't know what's wrong with you, but not only do I have no reason to slash your tires, I wouldn't even know what hotel you're staying in. Now, this is really enough. You need to go."
She turns on her heel and walks away, her arms folded tightly over her chest. I watch her for a few seconds, then turn away and head back out of the bank. Dean stares at me as we climb back in the car.
“What was all that about?” he sputters. “Don't you think you flew off the handle a little bit in there?”
“Yes,” I nod. “That was the point.”
“What do you mean?”
“How did she know I'm staying in a hotel?” I ask.
“Well, I'm assuming she knows you're not from the area. It only makes sense you would be staying somewhere,” Dean says.
“But she didn't even know I was here.
