Juniper leaned over the railing to the balcony of her apartment. A rainbow of potted plants dotted the terrace, making it look like a mini rainforest.

“Tell me again about the day you met my mommy” she pleaded. Her brown eyes twinkling with delight.

“Your mommy and I have been friends since before you were born, I started. But she didn't make it easy” I laughed.

April 2, 2014

“Fourteen year old Cara Rogers was reported missing this morning, by her mother, Linda Rogers, at 5 a.m. when she got up for work. Any information or tips on her whereabouts

should be reported to Jefferson City Police department.”

I clicked the TV off, from the kitchen, where I waited impatiently for my wake up cup to brew. But her

soft brown face was burned into my mind, lingering long after the screen had blackened. 

Cara was the fourth girl to disappear this month, and it was only eight days in. My heart sank, as the statistic that 91% of missing teenage girls had willfully run away churned over in my mind.

I jammed the keys into the ignition, and pulled out from the parking lot of my tiny one room apartment, thinking how thankful I am that I do not have any pets, since I knew I wouldn’t be home until well after nine. If not later.

I surveyed the street leading out of my neighborhood, anticipating my phone would begin to buzz any minute.

Sure enough as I pulled up to the 4 way stop, I heard it vibrating on my hip, and clicked on my Bluetooth headset.

 “Hey Roe...” I chirped.

“Zan, did you see the girl from the news yet?” Ambrosia wondered. “Yeah, I’m on it,'' I stated, distracted. “You’re on it? How do you know her mom is going to reach out to you, to be the investigator?” she questioned,

half-heartedly. “They always do.”

 I had made a name for myself, as a private investigator, in the past four years. I had worked all over Florida helping some girls reunite with their families. But more often, helping them stay hidden. Giving them support and resources to escape for good and set them up for self-sufficiency. 

Roe was one of the girls I had helped, two years ago. She was the reason I decided to take on this “vigilante” approach, as she liked to call it. Late one December evening, I had just left Leah’s, after a game night with the girls. There she was, ducked under an overpass, trying her hardest to make herself invisible in the shadows, covered up to her shoulders with a sleeping bag and staring closely, solemnly, at her phone. But she hadn’t been invisible to me. She was luminous. 

Over time I learned, she lived with her single mom, who blamed her for why she couldn’t get her life

together. 

Now, she worked for me. She kept all of her paychecks, and after staying with me for 4 months, she had put

enough away to make a deposit on one of the apartments in my complex.

Since then, I've had to work overtime to cover on the losses from furious parents that I did not return

daughters to. But there were plenty of cheating husbands, shady business partners and untrustworthy babysitters to keep us plenty busy. And keep cash

flowing in.

“Well, come back and get me!” she barked into the phone. “Zan..!” “Okay, okay, I’m turning around now” I said sheepishly. “I thought you’d still be asleep!” 

The first few months with me, she had slept in until 10 a.m. or later, making up for lost hours of sleep over

the turbulent years at home. When I pulled up, Roe was

standing at the edge of the sidewalk, arms crossed and her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. The light glinted off of her glasses and the sleeves to her red hoodie were rolled up. She meant business.

"Good morning sleepyhead" I mused, as she clambered into the passenger side. "Whatever, I've been up at 8 a.m. so you know!" She laughed. "Where are we headed to?" 

" I'm thinking we hit up the usual spots. See what we can dig up" I suggested. She buckled up and leaned back. "Sounds good to me." 

We pulled out of the apartment complex again and headed North up to the local park, Seminole Heights.

This is where teens, and at night, the homeless usually gathered, to get up to no good. Or to get away. You could always find someone who had seen or heard

something through the night. 

 We parked and sat spectating for a moment, and finishing our bagels, and Roe, her coffee. Long

John was in his usual spot, perched on the bench of the bus stop, reading the morning paper. Sipping a beer in a brown paper sack. At 9 a.m.. Mona and Jewel were lingering by the front door to the Kwik E gas station across the road. Teasing the men passing back and forth through the glass shop

doors. 

We jogged across the street, when there was a break in traffic. Nodded to Mona and Jewel, and quickly dipped

into the AC blasted mart.

I emerged from the chill room with a tall, chilled 25 oz can of Budweiser, and met Roe at the counter. Then

requested the usual, 2 packs of Menthol Kool’s, for the girls. Junior rang us up, with a knowing grin.

“Hey girls, did you see any new faces last night? I quizzed, sliding them each a pack, into their waiting palms.  

“No, not last night, it was quiet. Only the usual’s. But thanks for the smokes.”

I shrugged, waved, and decided to try our luck with Long John.

 As we approached him, he sat perched atop his faded blue three-wheeled bicycle, covered with chipped paint, and a large black boombox attached with zip ties and duct tape to the center of the handle bars. He turned the volume down, twisting one of the worn black knobs, from blaring to slightly deafening. 

 “Did you see any new faces last night?” I screamed over Kendrick Lamar. “Particularly a young girl?”

John’s eyes flitted into annoyed squint. He averted eye contact. “ Yeah I saw her.” he grumbled. I handed him the beer. “I caught her on my bench.

Asked her if she wanted some company, I had some chips I could share. She just took off, looking back like I would chase her down.”

Yes a lead, I thought. We hurried back to my cream colored Santa Fe, and peeled out of the parking lot. If she had been here then likely someone tipped her off about the All Hope’s Church, three blocks up, that serves breakfast and dinner every weekday. 

Every red light I regrettably slowed to, felt like a fleeting moment of opportunity. Four minutes later, I

swerved into the grass in front of the church, narrowly missing the yellow block indicating a front parking spot. We squeezed into the door, apologizing, and assuring them we weren’t skipping the food line. We wouldn’t be eating. 

There she was. Wedged into the corner, closest to the door. Her left shoulder pressed onto the pale yellow

wall, as she stared down at her phone. A black skinny wire snaked up to it, from the charger box plugged into the outlet under the shiny brown, pine table. 

Well, surely her mom would be able to track her then.  

My eyes scanned her body, by instinct, and stopped short, catching sight the bruises peeking out from her

black sleeves, at the height of her right shoulder. They just barely showed on her caramel brown skin, but to my trained eye it was enough. By the pained way

she folded into the chair, sitting slightly off center mass, those were likely just the visible ones. Yeah, she couldn’t go home I surmised. Roe and I locked eyes, in a fierce expression mixed with loyalty and duty. We knew what had to happen. How do we approach her though?

Roe leaned in and whispered,“how about I play the part?” I nodded. Given her background it was easy for Roe to fit in as a “lost” girl on cue. She could approach Cara and gently talk her into letting us help. She slipped into line, in front of a woman with wild hair, who was frantically staring out of the window, and scratching, periodically, at her neck. I rounded the front table, where church members restocked the paper napkins, plates and plasticware in woven baskets.

Roe crossed the room slowly, through the jigsaw of tables and took an empty spot at Cara’s table. She looked up and met her eyes. Fear flashed across her face. Someone had noticed her.

Worse, recognized her. She pushed back from the table, fumbling to yank out the charger and shove it in her small sling backpack strapped onto the back of her

chair. “Wait…” Roe whispered. “We can help you.”

 Without a word, she stood and stormed out of the back doors to the church. As soon as she was out of them, I jumped up and grasped the door before it slammed. With enough time to watch her sprint down a side alleyway and disappear.

“What happened?” I whispered.

“I don’t know.” she said exasperated, blowing a breath. “I think it was too much.” 

My phone started to chirp, stating it was an unknown caller.

Around 11 a.m. we pulled up to the red brick single-story home, my gps confirmed was the correct destination. I knocked twice, two quick raps, and took a step backward. The crimson red door opened slowly with a creak, letting smoke and a ripe odor of animal urine

that had never been properly cleaned escape.  

“Hello, I am Zandora Wilson.

This is Ambrosia Wright my assistant. We’re here to help with the search for your daughter.”

Linda waved us in and guided us through a tight entryway, to a small room, with a worn dining room table

that doubled as a home office. A dingy red and gold, oriental rug, sprawled underneath it. We sat shoulder to shoulder in the white wooden high back chairs, stained with years of smoke build up.

 She sauntered to the kitchen, bent, and fished out two mugs from the kitchen cabinet. “Would you care for some coffee?”  

“ Oh, no I’m fine” Roe and I said at the same time, giving each other a quick glance. 

“ I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind us getting started, Ms. Rogers.” I prompted. “As you’re

probably aware, the first 24 hours are the most crucial.” She nodded wearily, as she sank into a chair across from us.

I pulled out my small travel notebook from a side pocket inside of my blazer, and clicked my pen.

“When was the last time you saw Cara?” 

“Like I told the officers,last night, I checked on her at about 12 p.m. before I went to sleep myself.”

Her eyes dropped. She wouldn’t make eye contact.  

“What happened last night, from the time you got home until you last saw her?”

“Well, she worked, after school until about 10 p.m. at my boyfriend's hardware shop. After that, she came in, about 10:45, and heated us up some chicken and rice we had leftover. She didn’t say much. She just ate, and took a shower and went to bed.”

“She worked until 10 pm.?” I glanced up. Deliberately locking eyes with her this time. “ You said she’s

fourteen, correct? You know that is illegal, don’t you Mrs. Rogers?” She buried her face in her hands. “And she did this how often? Worked from 4 p.m. until 10

p.m. after school?” 

Mrs. Rogers didn’t answer. I already knew the answer. Every night. 

And, she wasn’t telling me something.

“ May I see her room?” I ordered.

She led us back to the bedrooms. I noted her room was off to the left, the door shut securely. Cara’s

was to the right, next to it was a small blue tiled bathroom. With three toothbrushes, sticking out of a blue plastic cup. 

A three foot wide black plastic desk, sat across from the foot of the bed. Ripped on notebook pages sat

atop it, with scrawled notes running across the pages. An Algebra 1 Math textbook sat on the top right. In front of a small cup of pens and pencils. I opened the textbook and thumbed through it. On page 212, a small slip of paper slid down, almost falling out and down to the ground. I peered at the words, they revealed some Greyhound bus routes leading from Tampa up to Atlanta. It was dated for today at 1 p.m. an overnight drive, that would arrive in Atlanta the

next morning, at approximately 9 a.m. So

that was the plan, to catch the next greyhound out of the city. 

 “Ah, math equations, ugh I hated math in school!” I laughed. I glanced back to see Roe asking a

series of nonessential questions about the book, Frost,

that sat atop the nightstand. “Is this what Cara enjoyed reading? What is it about?” Nice job, you’ve learned so

well, I thought proudly. Distract her with silly questions, while we search for the real clues. I shoved

the slip into the right pocket of my slacks. Why

the hell was the front pocket so small, I shoved down further making sure it was out of sight.

I could tell there had been a computer here, the charger peeked out from behind a storage shelf that ran the

length of the bottom of the desk. 

“ It looks like we’ll have to speak to the police, and try to gain access to her computer. To see who she was

talking to and what they might know. That seems like our best bet.” Do you have any family nearby?” I questioned carefully, being sure not to allude to Georgia.

“I have a sister in Orlando, we don’t see her often. But she is Cara’s favorite aunt. She has a daughter who

is sixteen. The girls are best friends. But they only really get together once a month for sleepovers, and Cara goes there over summers. 

“I see, there could be a good chance that may be just where she is headed.” I mentioned assuredly. I prompted her again. “What about any family or friends out of state?” 

“Well, I’ve got a cousin in Utah. She works a dairy farm there. And another sister in Georgia. She is a

teacher at a local high school. Cara hasn’t seen her since she was about ten…” She trailed. Bingo. That doesn’t mean she hasn’t kept in contact. You just don’t know.

“Ah, I see.” Those are some great leads.

Thanks Mrs. Rogers. I think I will focus my aim on your closest sister. But first, I am going down to the station to see about that computer.”

I turned and marched out of the room. Roe caught my frustration, and followed quickly behind. Mrs Rogers, walked back to the dining room table and began to busy herself with painting her nails. Painting her nails! “Anything else,” she questioned, mindlessly. 

My turn to not answer. Roe and I let ourselves out, I barely mustered the composure to not slam the

door. 

I couldn’t cross the driveway fast enough. I slammed into the drivers seat, and let out the string of curses

I’d bottled up. Roe eased back in her chair. “Yeah…” she huffed, letting the frustration hang in the air for a moment.

“ So, what did you find?” she quizzed after a breath. 

“She’s planning on taking the greyhound out of the bus station at 1 today.” Suddenly, I thought to look

at the clock. We had just spent over an hour

in the house, listening to a bunch of bumbling and excuses!

12:25. We better hurry.

The bus station was a twenty minute drive from us. But they loaded about fifteen minutes before departure. 

“Buckle up!” I snapped. 

We peeled out onto 301. I punched the gas to avoid being stuck behind the large semi that was about 700

feet away. And merged onto 275 within 10 minutes. Yes. 

Then, bumper to bumper traffic halted us to a crawl for the next 3 exits. 3 exits! How does that take 25 minutes?

We pulled into the station at 12:57. Damn traffic. I sprinted across the parking lot, to the ticket

office and questioned the clerk about the bus leaving for Atlanta. “All the tickets are gone, darling.” She stated. As she clacked away on her keyboard. “I don’t need a ticket, just the bus number” I urged.

Roe shouted from the bus line, “ It’s right there!” She pointed to the orange fluorescent words “Departing: TPA to ATL” that flashed across a black screen atop the gigantic bus window, three lines over, closest to the departure road. It was already rumbling as the engine sprang to life.

I raced back to catch up to Roe, whose long legs put her about two strides ahead of me, and we watched the

bus slowly creep out of the parking lot. The driver was oblivious to our screams and waves, as he looked out of his window for oncoming traffic. 

I bent at the waist, bracing my hands on my knees as it passed us. Roe stood, unfazed, her athletic body in

much better shape that my own.

 “Look” she pointed.

In the second to last window, barely visible through the protective tint, we caught the slight motion of Cara’s fingers bending up and down, in a wave. The corners of her mouth tugged into a slight smile at the corners. Her eyes locked with mine.

We’d be setting out further than I had anticipated this morning, when I’d locked up. Atlanta, here we come.