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Maybe she made it to the garage and somebody took her.

Maybe this was never just one thing.

The thought hits like a crowbar to the ribs.

“Where are you now?” I ask.

“Still on-site. We’re pulling garage footage, but it’s taking—”

“Don’t leave.”

“I’m not.”

I hang up and stand there in the middle of her room, breathing like I’ve been in a fight.

Could be either. That’s the problem.

If she ran, I drag her back myself. Lock her away. She’ll never leave again.

If she was taken—

My vision goes white for half a second.

The phone rings again.

Santo.

I answer on the first ring. “Yeah?”

Santo doesn’t waste time. “We got a hit on one of her cards.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “Where?”

“A plane ticket. Booked this morning. One-way to Chicago.”

For a second, I don’t say anything.

Chicago.

It doesn’t make sense. Not in any way that matters.

“She doesn’t know anybody in Chicago,” I say.

Santo is quiet for half a beat. “That you know of.”

The words hit wrong. Cold. Sharp. Designed to cut.

My eyes drag back to the backpack in the corner. The half-open zipper. The empty place where the money should be.

Seventeen grand gone.

One-way ticket.

My car.

Her phone crushed.

Every piece fits.