Page 43 of Hidden

He checks his notes, flips back two pages. "Four months. Within the window."

"But the time of day is wrong."

"Yeah."

"Which means either Austin is different for a reason we haven't identified yet," I say, "or Austin is an outlier and someone deviated from the pattern."

"Why would they deviate?"

"Opportunity. Something changed. She was somewhere she wasn't supposed to be at a time that wasn't planned for, and they moved anyway." I make a note. Flag Austin separately. Possible deviation from established pattern. Suggest reviewing subject's schedule for anomalies in the week prior. "Or she wasn't chosen the same way the others were."

Mason looks up. "What does that mean?"

"It means she might have been added to the list differently. Every other girl, based on what we have was watched for the full window. Three to five months of location surveillance. If Austin is a deviation, maybe Sarah Okafor was chosen on a shorter timeline."

"Why would they rush one?"

"I don't know yet." That’s the thing which is annoying me. I don’t have any answers. I have more and more questions, but no answers.

The trace indicator pulses quietly in the bottom corner of my screen.

Sadie has closed the essay. She's in a new document now, something she's writing herself.

Mason sets the Nashville file down and stretches his neck to one side. "I think we've done enough for tonight."

"Give me twenty minutes," I say.

"It's nearly two."

"Twenty minutes,” I snap at him.

He looks at me with the expression he gets when he's decided not to push something. Then he closes his laptop and stands, and Declan caps his pen and stacks the physical files back into order.

"You're staying on it," Mason says, it’s not a question.

"I want to finish the Austin thread."

He picks up his laptop and his coffee cup and pauses at the bottom of the stairs. "Miles."

I look at him.

He glances at my screen, the case files on the left, and the bottom corner of the right monitor where the trace indicator sits.

"Don't be up all night," he says.

He goes upstairs. Declan follows, dropping a hand briefly on my shoulder as he passes, no words, just that, which from Declan means more than most people's full sentences.

Then it's just me.

I turn back to the Austin file and work it for another twenty minutes, the way I said I would. The thread doesn't resolve tonight. There isn't enough data yet. I need deeper access to Sarah Okafor's university records and her social media history from the six months prior, both of which I'll pull tomorrow.

When the twenty minutes are up, I make my final notes, close the partition, and sit back.

The trace indicator pulses.

Sadie is still writing. It’s nearly two in the morning and I’m guessing she’s still at her desk in that small warm circle of lamplight. The cursor is moving in its rhythm, producing something that’s genuinely hers this time. I watch it for a while.

I turn on her webcam and microphone with a few keystrokes. The feed blooms across my screen in crisp detail. There she is, her hair twisted up messily, and she’s wearing that faded tank top that slips off one shoulder, with her lips parted in concentration. I lean closer, my breath slowing. Every second of it sinks into me.