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PHILLIP PRESCOTT, HEAD OF PRESCOTT CONSTRUCTION INC, DIES. PINE MEADOW SENIOR CARE FACILITY UNDER INVESTIGATION.

“Pine Meadow. That’s where Dahlia said she works.”

“Hey, Sawyer. You want some coffee?” Maddie asks as she breezes over.

“No, thanks, Maddie. But I will take two burgers and some onion rings to go.”

“You’ve got it.” With a smile, she heads back into the kitchen.

“Worked,” Sawyer corrects, pulling me back into the conversation. “I did some more digging and confirmed the doctor’s story. She went missing the same night Prescott died, alongside an entire bottle of Valium. Apparently, they suspended her without pay, pending an investigation.”

My stomach drops. She really is just an addict. “Dr. Edwards made it sound like the guy died of natural causes. So why is the facility under investigation?”

“According to Prescott’s attorney, his client was supposed to be under the constant care of a nurse—who dosed him with enough Valium to knock out an elephant. No natural causes here, my friend. The doctor was either misinformed or⁠—”

“Someone at Pine Meadow was trying to keep it quiet.”

“Bingo.”

I lean back and consider all the pieces of this ever-growing puzzle. “She had bruising on her face and the back of her neck when I found her. The doctor claims it was due to the accident, but I’m not convinced. Looked too much like your face does when you open your mouth on mission.”

Sawyer grins at me. “I like to think of it as ‘lightening the mood.’”

“Think of it however you want. Your face usually ends up with someone else’s fist marks on it. Which is how hers looked. Not quite as bad, but bad enough. I don’t know the extent of her other injuries, but the doctor seems convinced it was just a car wreck.”

“You correct him?” Sawyer asks.

“Alan tried to. He brushed it off.”

“I can access her medical records. See if they noted the bruising.” Sawyer crosses his arms. “As far as the old man goes, though, if she was using, then it’s possible she mis-dosed him, too.”

He’s not wrong. Logically, I know that.

Logically, I barely know this woman, so taking her at her word—especially when she can’t remember the last two weeks—is foolish.

So why do I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach? This nagging that tells me there is so much more to the story.

“Look, I trust you, Tank. If you want me to keep digging, then that’s what I’ll do. Up until this incident, your girl was a model employee. She left her job as a nurse at a hospital to work in the senior care facility that she moved her grandfather to. Her social media channels are all about her love for the job, her grandfather, and her obsession with crochet. From the outside looking in⁠—”

“What was her last social post?” I question.

He flips the tablet back around and taps on the screen. After a few moments, a smiling picture of Dahlia is looking back at me. She’s stunning in a yellow sundress, her hair in low pigtails as she sits on a porch alongside an elderly man. His arm is around her, and she’s leaning into him.

The caption reads: “Missing you every day. I know you’re up there, though. Save me a seat.”

“If she was using, her socials don’t give that indication at all.”

“Not that they would.”

“Well, no, not necessarily. But there are usually signs. She posts every day like clockwork. Happy, uplifting things. And never anything past eight p.m.”

Except, I know that looks can be deceiving. The unease grows. Angie seemed normal from the outside looking in, too. And the truth about her tore my life apart. Just the thought of her spins this entire situation into a brand-new scenario.

Beautiful girl has drugs in her system.

Yet I’m over here half-prepared to throw myself on train tracks to save her anyway.

I will not do this again. I can’t.