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It's Clementine. You can answer me now.

Seriously? Way to freak me out.

Sorry not sorry. Did you really make that street art?

I did. Yeah. A lot of it's still out there.

Hmm. Might have to go on a scavenger hunt.

Good luck with that.

What business does a cop have breaking the law? she asked, though I couldn't quite tell her tone. Clementine was notoriously difficult to read from her facial expressions, and with texts, it felt completely impossible.

I wasn't always a cop, I replied, before remembering that I actually was a cop who needed to work. I pocketed my wallet and keys from the table beside the door and headed out in a hurry.

A high school cop might've been rather awkward. Clementine messaged me again a few minutes later while I rolled on my board down the smoother part of the street. I smirked while reading it, then hopped off to respond.

I had better things to do in high school other than behave myself.

I'm not going to ask.

Well, I'm glad. I wouldn't tell you anyway.

You would.

I would not. My brow narrowed as I pulled open the door to the precinct.

You would. Maybe not in texts but you would.

How do you know that?

You're an INFP type.

I looked up from my phone and scoffed. What's that?

Personality type.

Okay…

Eventually, you would tell me.

Okay then. I pocketed my phone at that point and headed into the precinct with my board clasped in my palm.

I found Zay in the hall as he handed me the bagel he promised and a coffee. We walked together down the hall toward the conference room where everyone gathered while reviewing the Alessa Trainor interview. I'd sat through it the first time, knowing that the information wouldn't garner as much as we hoped. Despite that, it would bring us something and for that much I held tight to the notion.

Donovan stood while gazing at the projection screen, her hands on her hips while she rewound and fast-forwarded the video over and over again. Sali stood beside her, in a similar pose, but with her arms folded over her chest. Maggie, Walsh, and two other people I didn't recognize sat at the table in front of tablets with the transcription. In the room with Alessa sat a petite, blonde, wavy-haired woman who didn't say anything, but seemed to be observing. The FBI agent conducting the exam treated her gently, with kindness and soft tones accompanying the light coaxing required for the recovery interview. We all watched in silence as Alessa recounted the event.

A soccer field, her pink uniform, the beginnings of rain, and her mother being snatched from the bleachers.

How did no one see that at a soccer game? It didn't make any sense. CCTV cameras weren't common in 2005, I understood that, but during a sporting event? Even if it was afterward, why was Maryanne Trainor alone with her three-year-old in the rain after a soccer match? According to reports, Alessa was found standing in the middle of the soccer pitch, drenched from head to toe as the rain pummeled her while she cried. Why did she stand there, unmoving for so long? Trauma made humans behave differently. What about this one set her apart?

We watched and rewatched the thirty-minute interview a few times, but no one seemed particularly moved.

"We're missing something," said Sali, as she turned around to face everyone. "Why couldn't Nora do the interview? That lady sucked. Anita's gonna agree."

"Sal, c'mon," chided Maggie.

"Seriously, Nora would've done better. She hardly focused on the things a kid remembers." Sali flopped her hands to her side and looked to Caroline. "The FBI sucks."