"Vehicle?"
Carol described it.
"Black SUV. Arizona plate. I saw the first three letters."
Mercer nodded.
"Good."
Sam came from the kitchen.
"Who was that guy?"
Mercer looked at him.
"Someone you don't want to ask questions about."
Sam stared.
Mercer turned to Carol.
"You did the right thing."
Carol shook her head.
"I let her leave."
"You kept her alive."
"How?"
"Because they think she is still under their control."
Carol looked through the rain-streaked window.
"Who are they?"
Mercer hesitated.
Then he said:
"They're part of a trafficking network that moves people through the Southwest using fake employment contracts, debt, and threats against relatives."
Carol felt sick.
"How many victims?"
"We don't know."
"And Maya?"
"She's one of the few who got away."
Carol remembered the photograph.
"Her brother was leverage."
"Exactly."
"Why did they come here?"
Mercer looked at the table.
"Because they knew someone would be meeting her."
Carol frowned.
"Who?"
"We don't know."
A silence fell.
Then Sam said:
"Wait."
They looked at him.
He pointed toward the booth.
Maya had left something behind.
A small black notebook.
Carol picked it up.
Inside were names.
Dates.
License plates.
And one sentence written across the final page.
IF I DISAPPEAR, LOOK FOR THE WOMAN WHO OWNS THE BLUE HOUSE.
Carol stared at the words.
"What's the blue house?"
Mercer took the notebook.
"I don't know."
Sam frowned.
"I do."
Everyone looked at him.
"There is a blue house off Cedar Ridge."
"How do you know?"
"My brother used to live near it."
Mercer asked, "Address?"
Sam gave it.
Mercer immediately called someone.
Carol looked outside.
The black SUV was gone.
She felt the old fear rising in her chest.
The same fear she had felt fifteen years ago.
The fear of knowing someone was in danger and wondering whether you had done enough.
She touched the notebook.
Then she whispered:
"Find her."
Mercer looked at her.
"We will."
Carol shook her head.
"No."
She looked toward the rain.
"You don't understand."
"I understand."
"No," Carol said.
"You don't."
Her voice trembled.
"I know what it feels like to be afraid that nobody is coming."
She looked at the empty chair where Maya had been sitting.
"And I refuse to let that girl believe it again."
The Blue House
The blue house stood at the end of Cedar Ridge Road.
It had once been beautiful.
White trim.
Wide porch.
Tall windows.
Now the paint was peeling.
The porch sagged.
One upstairs window was broken.
There were no cars in the driveway.
No lights.
No signs of life.
But at 9:07 that night, Carol Whitfield sat inside an unmarked federal vehicle parked across the road.
Mercer was beside her.
Two agents waited behind them.
Carol had not been asked to come.
She had insisted.
Mercer had finally agreed.
"Stay in the car," he said.
Carol looked at him.
"That's what you tell everyone?"
"Yes."
"Does anyone listen?"
"No."
She smiled despite herself.
Across the street, one light came on.
Second floor.
Mercer straightened.
"That's new."
A figure moved behind the curtain.
Then disappeared.
One of the agents whispered into his radio.
Mercer opened the door.
"Stay here."
Carol grabbed his sleeve.
"What about Maya?"
"We'll find her."
"No."
Mercer turned.
"Carol."
"She trusted me."
"And she may still be alive because she did."
Carol looked at the house.
"Then don't make me sit here."
Mercer hesitated.
Finally he nodded.
"Stay behind me."
They crossed the road.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, the air smelled of bleach.
Carol's stomach tightened.
The living room was almost empty.
One chair.
One table.
No pictures.
No television.
Nothing personal.
It looked less like a home than a place people passed through.
Mercer pointed toward the stairs.
They climbed.
At the end of the hallway was a locked door.
An agent forced it open.
The room beyond contained four mattresses.
Plastic bottles.
Blankets.
A pile of shoes.
Carol covered her mouth.
Four mattresses.
Four people.
Maybe more.
On the wall were names.
Some crossed out.
Some circled.
Maya Torres was there.
So was Daniel.
But Daniel's name had been marked with a question.
Carol whispered:
"They had him here."
Mercer nodded.
"Recently."
One agent found a laptop.
Another found passports.
Fake documents.
Employment contracts.
Photographs.
Then Carol saw something.
A child's drawing.
A house.
A woman.
A little boy.
Underneath, in crooked handwriting:
MOMMY WILL FIND US.
Carol closed her eyes.
"Who drew that?"
Mercer didn't answer.
Then a sound came from downstairs.
Footsteps.
Everyone froze.
Mercer raised his hand.
The agents moved into position.
A man entered the hallway.
Not Frank.
Not Roy.
Someone older.
Tall.
Gray hair.
He stopped when he saw them.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then he ran.
The chase lasted less than a minute.
They caught him in the backyard.
His name was Gerald Pike.
He had no weapon.
No identification.
Just a key ring containing twelve keys.
One of them had a small brass tag.
HOLLOW CREEK.
Carol stared at it.
"That's our diner."
Pike smiled.
"Not your diner."
Carol felt the blood drain from her face.
"What does that mean?"
Pike said nothing.
Mercer grabbed him.
"Who else works with you?"
Pike smiled again.
"You think Frank is the boss?"
Mercer tightened his grip.
"Who is?"
Pike looked directly at Carol.
"The woman behind the counter."
Carol stopped breathing.
Mercer turned toward her.
Carol shook her head.
"No."
Pike laughed.
"She knows."
"I don't know anything."
"You know enough."
Mercer stared at him.
"What woman?"
Pike said:
"The owner."
Carol frowned.
"The owner of Hollow Creek?"
Pike nodded.
"She has been moving people for years."
Carol felt the world tilt.
"That's impossible."
Pike looked at her.
"You think she hired you because you make good coffee?"
Carol couldn't speak.
Mercer took Pike away.
Carol remained standing in the rain.
She suddenly remembered something.
Three years ago, the diner had changed owners.
The new owner was a woman named Evelyn Marsh.