Page 32 of What Happens at Nightfall

She worked her way down, trying to capture the way she had stood, one hip out, parasol aloft, head always tilted sideways, on alert.

Jess pushed the sketch across the table toward Melinda and Adam. “As you can see, she was pretty covered up.”

“This is—wow.” Adam picked up the picture, examining it. “You can really draw.”

Jess shook her head. “Not really. But you see? It might be anyone. There’s nothing identifying about it. The veil hides her eyes.”

“There’s her mouth and her chin—and you’ve caught something about the shape of the face.” Adam looked up hopefully. “Could we run it against a facial recognition program?”

Melinda snagged the sketch from her father. “The FBI could. Any database we could access wouldn’t have enough to be useful. Unless this woman is an influencer. Or a known serial killer.”

“This business—” Jess suggested awkwardly. “It seems like it might be a one-woman shop. Could we trace her from the website registration?”

“Maybe.” Melinda sat up a little straighter. “When you register a domain name, you have to provide contact info. We just need to use the Whois tool.”

Adam yanked out his phone. “Great. Perfect. Where do we go for this?”

“Give it to me.” Melinda rapidly typed an address into the search bar. “The problem is, when you register, you’re given the option of keeping your contact info hidden. Unless this person is really sloppy, it won’t be there.”

“Why would they offer an option like that?”

“So people don’t get hassled. Here. Type in the domain name. Actually, you do it.” Melinda handed the phone to Jess. “It takes Dad an hour to type two words.”

“That’s a gross exaggeration,” Adam protested. “Mostly.”

“I age five years every time you send a text.”

“You’re only fifteen.”

“In people years,” Melinda retorted. “In text years, I’m three hundred and fifty.”

Jess cleared her throat. “There’s nothing useful here. It just says ‘Organization: Whois Privacy Protection Services, Inc.’”

“I had a feeling.” Melinda made a valiant attempt at a shrug. “The default is to hide it.”

“Why would they do a thing like that?” burst out Adam. “What if someone’s dangerous? There must be some sort of work-around. I wonder if the police could get access. The police. We should call the police.”

Melinda made a rude noise. “Like they’d take this seriously. What are they going to do, perform an exorcism?”

“They could do . . . something.” Adam looked plaintively at Jess. “At least it would be on record.”

Or not. When she’d called the police, ten months ago, to report fraud, they’d told her it wasn’t their department. Was an active burglary or assault being committed? No? Clear the line, lady. Jess didn’t have huge expectations that the police would take a creepy wall of pictures any more seriously than they’d taken her allegations of fraud and money laundering.

And then there was the small matter of their being in the tour guide’s apartment. Jess had learned the hard way that sometimes, when you reported a crime, it boomeranged back at you. Sometimes, it wasn’t the person who’d done wrong who was punished. Sometimes, it was the person who tried to make things right.

“I mean, you could,” said Jess reluctantly. “You probably should.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Jess really didn’t want to be arrested for trespassing. She was already in enough trouble. According to her lawyer, she was a whistleblower. According to her former employer’s countersuit, she was a thief and a liar.

Breaking and entering would not look good on her résumé.

But this wasn’t about her. It was about Melinda.

“Call them,” she said.

Adam frowned at his phone. “Is there a number for this? Do I call 911 or is that only for emergencies?”