Fran had been deep into peeling the label off her coffee cup when her phone buzzed. She exhaled sharply at the name on the screen. Trevor.

For a split second, she debated ignoring it. Let it go to voicemail. Handle it later, when she wasn’t already bracing herself for a fight. But that wasn’t an option. Not with this case. Not with him.

She answered. "Yeah?"

"You’re working the girl, right?" Trevor’s voice was clipped. Guarded.

Fran frowned. "Found her last night on the way home from the alarm place. What about her?"

"Just checking in." He hesitated. "Anything new?"

She heard it—the measured pauses, the subtle restraint. Trevor wasn’t just checking in. He was setting the stage for an argument before it even started.

"I’m handling it," she said, sharper than she meant to.

A beat. "Fran, she’s a runaway—"

"You don’t know that."

"Neither do you. That’s the problem."

She pushed up from the chair, pacing. "I know what I’m doing."

Trevor sighed, but it was one of those held back sighs—the kind that meant he wanted to push but knew he shouldn’t. "Do you?"

Her grip tightened around her phone. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, do you know objectively," Trevor clarified, his tone more controlled now, "or do you just think you do because you’re too close to see it clearly?"

Fran’s frustration rose sharp in her throat. "Oh, so now I’m incompetent?"

"No—"

"Because that’s what it sounds like."

Trevor went quiet for half a second—just long enough for Fran to feel the hit land. "Look," he said finally, measured, careful. "You were in her position once. You know what she’s feeling. But that’s exactly why you might not see this the way you need to."

Fran stiffened. "I know what’s at stake. I know better than anyone."

"That’s exactly it." Trevor’s voice was lower now. "You feel too much. You care too much. And I get it. But she’s not just some girl in trouble. If she’s a runaway, if there’s something bigger here—" He exhaled. "We can’t just treat her like she’s fragile. We have to treat her like she’s real. That means knowing where she came from."

Fran bristled. "I am treating her like she’s real."

"Are you?" Silence. Heavy. Unspoken words pressing into the static between them.

Fran swallowed. "I’ve got work to do."

"Yeah."

The call ended before either of them could say more. And still, Trevor’s words sat there, settled in the space between Fran’s ribs.

She tossed the phone onto the desk—the closest she wanted to come to throwing her private one—and flopped into the chair. Maybe shifting focus to the searches would clear her mind.

Then, a sound from inside the room.

A sigh. Too quiet to tell what it meant.

With a heavy breath, she stood and moved to the door. She wanted to clomp—wanted the kid to know she was frustrated—but decided that might make things worse. She was just one cop. Not a whole squadron.

Opening the door, she saw the kid still had her eyes closed. The warm water had washed away her makeup, making her look even younger. Fourteen, maybe fifteen.

Fran caught herself. Kid. Not girl. She didn’t know that yet.

She went to her closet, pulling out the smallest robe she owned, then grabbed some panties. If the kid wasn’t a girl, she had nothing else to offer. It would have to do.

She turned back—and found the kid watching her.

"Hi," Fran said.

"Hi," came a soft voice.

Fran couldn't place it—hadn't changed yet, probably. "What’s your name?"

A pause. Barely a heartbeat. Then:

"Denise."

Fran repeated it. Let it settle. Denise. At least now she had something solid. Something the kid wanted her to believe.

Denise exhaled, slow and measured, like she’d been holding her breath.

Fran kept her voice gentle. "Do you have a last name?"

Another pause—tiny, but enough.

"T... Troutman."

Fran caught the flicker of hesitation. A split-second decision. That wasn’t just uncertainty. That was choice.

She filed it away. “Where are you from?”

"Uh... Iowa. Ottumwa."

Fran nodded. Midwest. That tracked.

“That’s quite a way from here. What brings you to Venture?”

Denise eyed her carefully. A pause too long to be natural.

"I'm just passing through."

Fran didn’t buy it. Not for a second.

"Where are your parents?"

"Uh..." Denise shifted, gaze flicking away. "They're dead."

Fran lowered her eyes to the badge on her uniform. Venture Police Department. That was when she knew—Denise wasn’t just reluctant. She was locking up.

"So, who do you live with?"

"My grandparents."

Quick. Almost too quick.

Fran watched her carefully. That felt true.

"And where are they?" She placed the robe and panties on the bed.

"They... disappeared in the blizzard."

The answer landed too neatly. And yet, Denise said it with weight. Like she needed Fran to believe it.

Something shifted in Fran's chest. What am I missing?

Denise closed her eyes.

Interview over.

Fran stood. That was it? That was all she was getting? Frustration climbed up her spine, bitter and sharp.

She cleared her throat. "Here’s some clothes. Sorry I don’t have anything in your size. Yours were pretty messed up. I washed and dried them, but I’m afraid they couldn’t be saved."

She stepped out and shut the door. The lock clicked, sharp in the silence.

Fran leaned back against the wood, pressing her palms into her eyes.

Was Trevor right?

Was the nice approach wrong?

Fran’s internet connection was still down. The blizzard had done its work.

She flicked on her cell’s hotspot and ran her search again, eyes scanning the familiar town names. No missing teenagers in Ottumwa—no one named Troutman either. Expanding the radius yielded nothing.

Then, she widened it again.

Vernon Troutman. Missing from Akron, Ohio. Thirty-six.

Wrong age. Wrong place. But still—something about the name stuck.

Her fingers hesitated above the keys. Troutman.

Then it hit her.

Dennis Troughtan.

She sucked in a breath. That’s what was wrong.

Fourteen years ago, Dennis had been found hanged in his barn. Suicide. A note on his desk. Before Venture had even existed, back when the town was just scattered buildings—no more than a general store and a handful of houses.

But Dennis had a son.

Dennis James Troughtan. Three years old when his father died.

Denise?

Could she be him?

-=#=-

Fran scrolled through the county records, her pulse quickening as she widened the search.

Twenty-five years back. The land transfer popped up—Margaret Marion Brightly-Goldman to Cynthia Helen Troughtan.

Fran frowned. There was no sale recorded after that. No seizure for unpaid taxes. No forwarding address for Cynthia or her father after they left.

She leaned back, processing the odd absence.

Then she found the acreage.

Her breath hitched.

Twenty thousand, five hundred acres.

It was huge compared to Venture. It even dwarfed Grade.

The scale of it was staggering—so much land, just... gone?

The land was there, she knew that. But officially? It didn’t seem to exist—not anymore. Like Cynthia and her father, it had slipped between the cracks, erased from paper but still standing in reality. A quiet stretch of earth, untouched, unanswered.

She decided to let off some steam. She had some pictures on the wall, where she could think about them. They were shots of faces of some of the bad guys she had worked against recently. Pulling some darts out of her right top drawer, she stood up. She stood the regulation distance from the wall, and let one fly. She threw the dart into the picture right between the guy’s eyes. She walked over and saw that the point of the dart was buried all the way.

She flexed her shoulders to see if they’d loosened a bit. Nope. Didn’t feel like it. She sighed and went to the coat rack beside the front door. Perhaps if she went to Mel’s Bar.

Still tense from the frustration of both conversations, she shut off her computer and slipped her feet into her boots, threw her coat and hat on, wound her usual knit white scarf around her neck and walked out the door.

She almost took off before remembering her house guest. Guiltily, she looked back at the door. Should she tell Denise what she was doing? No. She decided not to bother the girl.

She set the alarms in her house, but had to think about which zones to turn on. She decided to go with the external doors and windows on silent. That way, she would be alerted by her phone if they were opened, but no sirens would go off, so she’d know if Denise exited the house. She also made sure the cameras at the bathroom and bedroom doors were off. She didn’t think they were necessary. Finally, she set the cameras on outside the house.

When she pressed the arm button, the armed LED on the panel flickered. That’s strange, she thought. Frowning, she disarmed it, then armed it again. It worked fine that time.

Once out on the street, the LED problem bothered her. One more problem in a world of them, she thought. She really wanted a beer, but knew she’d better refrain while on duty. She knew it wouldn’t make her drunk, but appearances were important.

Arriving at the bar which had once been a schoolhouse, she stamped up onto the steps. Mel had installed some diamond grate aluminum decking from a wrecked tanker trailer, just for days like these — so people stomp the snow off their boots rather than track it inside.

Reaching for the doorknob, she noticed that the bar also had a General Alarms security system. She wondered if it had the same problem hers did. Probably moisture, or a downed power or network line somewhere, she thought.

She opened the door and went in.

Mel, the owner and bartender glanced at her. “Hi, Chief!” he said with a smile. “Fraid you won’t get in any darts today. Nobody’ll play wi’ ya’. You’re too good!”

“Well that’s no fun,” she said ruefully. “I guess no one likes a dart shark.”

“They don’t mind losing,” Mel said. “At least not the game. They don’t like losing their money.”

“Mel, you’re not insinuating I would gamble, are you?” she asked with mock horror.

“Who said anything about gambling?” Mel countered. “You’re not gambling. They’re the ones gambling. For you it’s a sure thing.”

He was polishing a glass, and set it down on the counter behind him. “Whatcha drinking today?” he asked.

“Diet Coke,” she said. “I’m on duty.”

“Gotcha,” he answered, pulling out a glass and using the fountain to fill it with the dark liquid.

Looking at the beverage, Fran thought, Dark. Just like my mood right now. Pale Ale would be better, but not for my reputation. Suddenly she realized, she hadn’t eaten yet. “Hey, Mel,” she called. “How about a chicken salad sandwich?”

“Haven’t eaten yet, or is one sitting on your desk at home?” he asked, chuckling.

“Completely untouched,” she said. Pretty bad when your friends know so much about you, she thought to herself.

He delivered the sandwich, and Fran glanced at the clock over the bar. “Oh, No!” she exclaimed. I’ve gotta get going!”

“You still working with Ross?”

As she was pulling her coat back on, Fran answered, “Yeah.”

“Ask him what it means when the LED flickers when you’re arming the system?”

“Sure. When did it happen?” That’s quite the coincidence, she thought. Probably nothing. But then again...

“Last night when I was locking up.”

She held up a thumb in affirmation, and headed out the door.

As she was heading to Venture Land Development, where her friend Millie worked, she couldn’t shake the nagging thought of the LED. Something about it just didn’t feel right. Some unease that refused to disappear. She recalled that Mel had experienced the same glitch the night before. But that was before any winds could have affected the system. That observation ruled out downed power or network lines.

So what was it?

She filed the incident away for further thought. She’d ask Ross what was causing it. Would he tell her? Did it have anything to do with the missing funds Julie Masden, the freelance accountant working for General Alarms, had noticed? Or was it really nothing, like Fran had initially thought?