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Luke pressed his phone to his ear and lowered his voice.

“No, I don’t have a name or date of—”

The woman at the hospital cut him short. “We protect our patients’ privacy.”

“Yes, I underst—”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m checking on a potential victim of a crime.”

A few seconds of silence passed before the woman broke it.

“The details again, Deputy?”

Luke surveyed the patrol room in the sheriff’s office once more, ensuring no one was near enough to overhear.

“White female, aged twenty to forty. The time frame on the date I gave you, at 11:30 p.m., to twenty-four hours after that.”

“Still vague. Anything else?”

Luke glimpsed a figure— someone in uniform —passing through the patrol room, disappearing at the edge of his periphery. Luke lowered his voice again.

“Bear in mind the time frame,” he said. “It was an anonymous tip from a person who saw a woman in distress, maybe injured, walking along River Road near Fawn Ridge. Do you have any admissions or walk-ins that fit?”

A burst of typing on a keyboard came through the line, punctuated by clicks. Luke imagined the hospital official likely scowling as she searched.

“No,” she said.

“You’re certain?”

Sighing with exasperation, she said, “In that time, we had a woman in her seventies with a reaction to medication; a man who fractured his hand; a teenage boy with abdominal pain; and an infant with a fever. That’s it.”

“Thank you.”

That was the last of the four hospitals serving the county. He’d made the calls surreptitiously, between his duties. He’d also checked with EMS for the county, asking if paramedics had treated, or transported, anyone fitting the description.

Again, the response was negative.

Luke leaned back, his chair creaking, and dragged his hands over his face.

What’s happening to me? The LAPD psychologists warned me about all the issues around post-traumatic stress—altered thinking, paranoia, guilt, self-recrimination. Is that what this is?

Am I imagining the whole thing?

I couldn’t find any woman, and there’s no match for anyone hurt. The fabric could’ve been from a rag, or something tossed in the storm. It could’ve been from something earlier.

Right?

I feel like I’m losing my grip.

“Luke?”

He looked up at his boss, Sheriff Ellerd, standing before his desk.

“You good?”

“Yep. A little tired.”

“Got a minute to talk?” Ellerd said. “In my office.”