The Last Good Girl Read Free Page B

your boyfriend farming in the middle of Detroit?”
    Cooper’s was the only house still standing on his street; the rest had fallen or been burned to the ground. A few blocks away towered an abandoned skyscraper, its dark windows like a thousand blind eyes.
    â€œHe’s trying to save the city.” Anna flipped open the iPad cover. “Finding a way to make it economically viable. All while providing fresh food for the locals.”
    â€œHe’s not a practical one. But he’s cute.”
    â€œI know. He’s not really my boyfriend either. He’s . . . it’s complicated.”
    Anna tapped the play button. The first video was the one she’d seen on the news, Emily breaking free of Dylan and walking away. The time stamp started at 12:02 A.M. The second, stamped 12:03, showed Emily walking about a block farther, still followed by Dylan, who was breaking into a run. Her shimmery scarf trailed behind her like a cape.
    â€œThe first was taken by a video camera mounted outside a bar called Lucky’s,” Sam said. “Multiple sources put her there immediately before this interaction with Dylan. The second is from the Bank of America about a block away.”
    â€œAfter that?”
    â€œNothing. After the bank, there’s a construction site nicknamed ‘the Pit,’ and then the block becomes residential. There’s no video on the street after the bank. We’ve pulled all the video in a ten-block radius, but there’s nothing else. Neither Emily nor Dylan appear again.”
    Anna looked at the clock on the dashboard: it was 9:55 P.M. on Saturday; the girl had last been seen at midnight the night before. Twenty-two hours for her roommate to discover her missing, to report it, for local police to decide it was actually an issue, then to pull the video and see the interaction between her and Dylan. Twenty-two hours for DOJ to realize they should step in. Twenty-two hours in which anything could have happened. The young woman could be lying in a frozen ditch, succumbing to hypothermia. Maybe she had broken bones or a concussion. Maybe she was tied up in a closet—Anna had a case like that once. Maybe she was wrapped in trash bags in a dumpster—Anna had a case like that once too. She wasn’t sure she could stand that again. Her stomach was tight with urgency.
    â€œHas anyone spoken to the boy? Dylan?” Anna asked.
    â€œNot yet. The press hasn’t gotten word that it’s him either. He may not even know that he’s been named.”
    Sam pulled onto the Lodge freeway as Anna pulled up Facebook. More and more, social media allowed her an intimate glimpse at the lives of the people she was investigating: instant, free, and without a subpoena.
    Anna swiped through Emily Shapiro’s Facebook pictures. Emily was a pretty eighteen-year-old with gray eyes and long dark hair. She had a pointy chin that gave her an elflike charm. Her interests were listed as theater, music, friends, and cooking. There were pictures of her walking dozens of different dogs on campus, and posts where she urged people to adopt them. No pictures with her family.
    Dylan’s privacy settings only allowed her to see his profile picture. She’d have to subpoena the rest. Dylan was a good-looking young man with brown hair and an all-American grin. There was nothing about his photo that said he was dangerous. But you couldn’t tell much from pictures. The nicest people might look like trolls on camera, while the most photogenic smiles could mask horrific secret lives.
    â€œLet’s go right to the boy’s house,” Anna said.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhat kind of search team is assembled so far?”
    â€œCampus police are searching campus. Local police are searching off campus. I’ve got an FBI tech working on finding her phone and setting up an alert on her ATM and credit cards. We’ve asked farmers in the surrounding area to