Three
Amanda and Trent left Rideout and Jimmy. She took some deep breaths as she stepped out of the van. The outdoor air was still tainted with the smell of smoke, but it was a welcome relief from the gas fumes she’d been inhaling inside the vehicle for the last while.
She headed down the driveway and stepped through the gate into the backyard. A six-foot-tall privacy fence lined the property. The seclusion would make it easy for trespassers to go unnoticed.
“Sixteen,” Sullivan mumbled from behind her. She turned, and he appeared like he’d spent time in a boxing ring and had the wind knocked out of him.
“It’s always worse when it’s a kid.” Amanda’s own statement drilled an ache in her chest as her thoughts first went to her sweet, beautiful Lindsey, then to the young girls she’d rescued recently from a sex-trafficking ring.
“You’ve had cases like this before?” Sullivan asked.
Amanda glanced at Trent, back at Sullivan. Three months ago, she and her family’s tragedy had been regurgitated publicly—as well as the fact she’d saved those girls. It had made front-page news in the Prince William Times. She was surprised he hadn’t heard. Usually word got around in a small town.
“I have,” she eventually said, her throat tight and her mouth suddenly dry. The flashbacks were attempting to align into focus with color and clarity, but she refused to allow them to take hold. She squeezed the memories from mind; it was best they remain fuzzy. “Well, not exactly like this, but…”
“With young people?”
“Yeah.”
Trent cleared his throat and prompted Sullivan, “You said you had the info on the person who called nine-one-one.”
“Yeah, let me get that for you. It’s in my truck.”
They followed Sullivan to an SUV. He ducked in the passenger door and pulled a notebook out of the glove box. He flipped pages and said, “Shannon Fox.”
“Address?” Amanda asked.
“Six-oh-two.” He nudged his head, drawing their attention across the street and down a few houses.
They’d pay Fox a visit, but Amanda would prefer to hear the call first. “Thanks,” she told Sullivan and pulled out her business card and handed it to him. “Everything’s on there. Phone, email…”
Sullivan smiled and gave her his card from the front of his notebook. “I’ll get everything over once I get it compiled, Detective.”
“Thank you.” She started toward the sidewalk, turned, and shrugged. “Actually, if you wanted to send it in chunks that would work for me.”
He held up her card as if to show he’d heard her but didn’t make any promises.
She proceeded to take out her phone and, with it, captured pictures of the crowd across the street as discreetly as possible. She knew Sullivan had taken photos, too, but there could never be enough. “Sullivan mentioned there were a few mattresses upstairs. Sounds like more than Doe was squatting there—and that’s assuming she was.”
“You don’t think she was?”
“Too early to say yet. What I do want to know is where the other squatters are now.” She flicked a finger toward the gawkers. “Maybe one of them will know.”
“There has to be thirty people or so.”
“You have something better to do?” she deadpanned. His complexion was pale, and his mouth opened, shut, opened, shut. She smiled. “I’ll call in for backup to help, but we need to get started.”
“Sure.”
She motioned for him to get moving while she called Malone. “Hey, we need unis down here for canvassing and to question onlookers.”
“I’ll get on it.”
“Thanks, Sarge. Oh, could you also get me the recording of the nine-one-one call?”
“Consider it done.”
She thanked him again, hung up, pocketed her phone, and set off across the street. Trent was talking to an older man, but it was a man in his twenties who caught her eye. He was wearing a navy-blue hoodie and avoiding eye contact. She held up her badge. “Prince William County PD, Detective Steele.”