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“Did you find out where Jillian and Gloria came from?” I ask.

Daire shakes his head. “Not yet. I can easily trace the ones kept in a holding facility—like the ones you take down—because those are checkpoints for girls to be transported to and from. But many of the victims are taken to groomers before they’re auctioned, and those are usually residential houses and oftentimes off-grid to protect the homeowners. Whoever Francesca is, she’s obviously a groomer and a well-hidden one.”

He has an entire map of transportation routes and checkpoints and insists that he would know if Addie were put up for sale or transported. There are minimal places to list girls for sale on the dark web, even for those who are selling their own children for profit, and Daire has access to every one of those channels. There is also an entire network for the auctions, moving girls to and from holding facilities, and other events where high-profile people can buy women and children, which Daire also has access to.

But Addie is too high-risk to be put through those standard processes. Claire is smarter than that. So, we’ve shifted our focus to tracking down this Francesca woman, but there are no homes in the state of Oregon owned by her.

“What was their last known location before they disappeared?” I ask. We’ve been narrowing our search down to surrounding towns within an hour’s drive from Jacksonville—where the auction was held—but unless they have cameras within or outside of the house, we have no way to confirm if Addie is inside any of them.

“Prior to being auctioned, Gloria was last seen getting into a vehicle in Grants Pass, and Jillian was picked up in Portland. She has records for prostitution, so she most likely was being trafficked beforehand that way.”

“Those cars are dead ends?”

“Yep,” he confirms. “Drove somewhere with no cameras and never seen again from there.”

“Fuck,” I curse, beginning to pace again. It’s the same ordeal with Xavier Delano. We were able to track his flight to Portland, Oregon, and a town car that drove him to the outskirts, but he fucking disappears again after that. They’ve taken every fucking precaution to make sure there is no trail leading to this house.

Daire clicks through a map as he says, “There are hundreds of thousands of homes in our targeted areas. Addie has to be in one of them, but narrowing down where is—” He cuts himself off, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he murmurs, “Interesting.”

“What?”

“There’s an old train system that used to operate in transporting girls near Grants Pass. It says it’s still active, even though this railroad line has been closed for decades.”

He goes onto Google Maps and tags the coordinates of the railroad, and then zooms in until it shows us a 3D view of it. The train is left abandoned on the railroad, the trailers corroded with nature and rust.

It’s in the middle of woods, with nothing but trees surrounding it. Another decade and most of the wildlife will have taken over completely.

“It’s just odd that it’s still considered an active channel,” Daire says, his brows pinching and a frown tugging down his lips.

“Are there any residential homes nearby?”

“Doesn’t hurt to look,” he replies. He looks up at me. “Keep in mind, there’s no way to legitimately confirm that they’re holding girls in them unless you storm the place. My advice? Don’t do that.”

I arch a brow in response. He rolls his eyes and turns back to his computer, realizing he’s talking to a person that just barged into Mama T’s house unannounced to get to them. What’s stopping me from doing it to anyone else?

The answer is nothing.

“I’m going to need a long session with my pet after dealing with you,” he mumbles.

“You’re welcome.”

He smirks but focuses on the screen as he navigates through the forest. For a long while, he doesn’t find anything. Long enough that I start pacing a hole in the floor behind him.

“Found something,” Daire announces about twenty minutes later, drawing my attention back to him. I come up behind him and lean down to get a better view.

If the fucker says I’m hovering again, I’ll steal his pet and drop her off somewhere random just to inconvenience him. Asshole is fucking blessed to have me so close.

A massive run-down house emerges from the trees. It looks like its prime was in the early 1900s. Still, it’s livable, big, and definitely well-hidden.

My heart picks up speed, and for the first time, I feel an inkling of excitement.

“Where is it located?”

“Merlin, Oregon. Only about fifteen minutes from Grants Pass, give or take.” He pauses. “And about an hour from Jacksonville.”

By the time he finishes his sentence, I’m nearly vibrating.

When the satellite picture was taken, only a rusted red pickup truck was parked outside of the house. I snatch my laptop, quickly searching the license plate to find the owner.