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THIRTY-ONE

SHERIFF HUDSON

“What do we have here?” I take a wide step over the broken glass; it’s strewn all about the floor, nearly impossible to avoid. My boots crunch over the shards as I walk farther into the Cuts by Carissa hair salon.

The scene in front of me is more than just a smashed window as initially reported. The place has been ransacked—chairs knocked over, salon supplies scattered across the floor, broken mirrors. I bend down, eyeing several crimson stains near one of the stylists’ stations, as well as scattered dark-brown, almost-black hair clippings. There’s blood, a lot of it, which is why I’m here. The forensics team is already on scene, collecting evidence and photographing every square inch of this place.

“I’m not sure, Sheriff,” Nagel says. “Deputy Lane arrived on scene for a reported B&E, but when he realized it was possibly more than that, he requested a supervisor. Once we got inside and saw all the blood, well, I called you.” He gestures to a pair of shears lying in a pool of blood. A trail of crimson liquid leads to the back of the salon, starting off as wet droplets and dribbles before turning to smeared blood as though something or someone was dragged through it.

“Who called this in?” I ask.

“An employee from the café next door. They noticed the smashed window when they passed by on their way to work.”

“Do we have an idea as to who this blood belongs to?”

“My guess would be the owner, Carissa Brooks. Her purse and cell phone are in the office, and a Kia Sorento registered to her is parked out back.”

I survey the scene, taking in every detail, attempting to string them all together to re-create the story of what could have happened here. I follow the trail of blood until it becomes smeared and suddenly stops at the back door. Pushing it open, I canvass the lot. The Kia Sorento is parked in front of a sign that reads Cuts by Carissa Employee , and there’s a security camera fastened to the outside wall, aimed at the exit door.

“What about this camera?” I say, pointing up at it.

“That was the first thing I checked. It’s not connected to anything. Just a dummy cam to scare off would-be thieves.”

I shake my head. That’s the problem with a small town. No one thinks anything bad can happen to them, so they go with security that’s meant to deter but doesn’t actually work. I follow the blood back inside, double-checking if I missed anything unusual—well, more unusual than a trail of blood.

“What’s your take, Sheriff?”

“Most obvious and simple explanation would be that someone came in to rob it, not expecting anyone to still be here. There was a struggle, chaos ensued, someone got hurt, maybe she stabbed the perp with a pair of scissors...” I walk around the overturned chair, careful not to track through any of the blood. Set on top of the cabinet beneath the smashed mirror is a straight razor. The blade is stained red. “Or a razor. Then whoever was hurt fled out the back.” I continue scanning the salon, not fully believing my own explanation.

“That’s what I figured,” Nagel says.

I scratch my chin. “This wasn’t a burglary gone wrong though.”

“You think?”

“I know. If it were, Carissa would be here—or at least her body would.”

“Maybe whoever did this took her,” Nagel posits.

“Burglary to abduction is a big leap, and they didn’t even take her purse or cell phone.”

“So, you’re thinking it was an abduction?”

“Possibly. What do we know about Carissa?”

Lieutenant Nagel doesn’t reply right away, so it’s clear we know nothing yet. “Put out an APB on her and pull a background check. Assign a couple patrol deputies to talk to her friends, coworkers, and any family she has. See if there’re any working security cameras in this shopping strip, and if there are, have a deputy start reviewing the footage. And I want lab results from the scene expedited, so we can figure out exactly what we’re dealing with here.”

“Yes, sir,” Nagel says. “Want me to pull in BCI?”

I let out a sigh. “Yeah, may as well.”

“What’d I miss?” Olson calls out. I turn to find her sidestepping over broken glass and snapping on a pair of latex gloves as she surveys the scene.

“Possible abduction.”

Her brows shove together. “Another one? Think they’re related?”

“Who knows? It’s just one thing after another,” I say, shaking my head.

Stevens is dead, murdered by God knows who. Stacy Howard is missing by possible abduction. And now, we have another missing woman. Plus, I’ve got the Kelly Summers case being jammed down my throat by the public and the media.

Something catches my eye at the check-in desk. The entire place is turned upside down, but on the counter sits the appointment ledger, untouched, in its rightful place. I walk to it, skimming over the list of appointments from the past week until I reach the very last one from yesterday evening at eight p.m.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I say.

“What? What is it?” Olson asks.

“You’re never going to believe who had the last appointment yesterday.”

Nagel and Olson exchange a confused look and then meet my gaze.

“Bob Miller.”