But in the reflection, the officer wasn’t investigating a crime scene. He was pointing at Abby. Giving a signal.
Lena smiled, tired. “Define alive. Abby was never going to be a missing person. She chose to be missing. Something happened in April 2004. Something bad. She wouldn’t tell me what, only that the people involved were still out there, and that the only way to protect herself was to become someone else.”
Taggart leaned forward. “What happened at Bickford and Marcy?” abby winters 2004
Taggart’s phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: You’re getting warm, Detective. Meet me at Bickford and Marcy. Midnight. Come alone. And bring the locket.
That night, he returned to the room in Roxbury. He sat on the cot and held the photo under his flashlight. The locket. He zoomed in on the photo’s reflection—just barely visible in the polished silver was the face of a man, standing behind the photographer. A man Taggart recognized. But in the reflection, the officer wasn’t investigating
The retired officer. The one who left the note.
On the cot was a modern smartphone, plugged into a hidden power source. It had one app: a voice memo recorder. Taggart pressed play. Lena smiled, tired
He opened the folder.