Chapter 166
Emily's POV
After extracting a few more details, Michael arranged for Ruben to be brought back to the station where a sketch artist would work with him to create images of the men.
"I hope this doesn't affect my teaching position at Riverstone High," Ruben said as he was leaving. "I need that job."
Once he was gone, I slammed my hand on the table. "That man doesn't deserve to be a father." My voice shook with anger, the kind of visceral reaction I rarely allowed myself to show.
"Focus, Emily," Michael said quietly. "We need to process what we've learned."
The team gathered in the conference room. Olivia seemed uninterested, flipping through her phone.
"No dead body, no forensic evidence," she explained with a shrug when I glared at her. "Not much for me to contribute here."
Daniel looked up from his notes. "Is that game on Neal's phone?"
"His phone was smashed and thrown away by his father," Michael replied.
Daisy was busy typing everything into the system. "So Neal wasn't depressed—he was 'reformed' by some mysterious group? That's... terrifying."
"If they can actually modify behavior like that, the applications could be revolutionary," Nolan mused. "Think about rehabilitation for criminals."
Thomas shook his head. "Except the effects aren't permanent. And apparently, they're traumatic enough that kids engage in harmful behavior afterward."
"The question now is, how do we find these people?" Michael asked.
"Kidnapping, for one," I said, counting on my fingers. "Even with parental consent, this 'treatment' sounds highly questionable."
Thomas tapped his pen against his notepad. "We should look for other kids who might have gone through this program. Check recent behavioral changes in troubled teens."
"That's a massive undertaking," Nolan objected. "We'd have to interview every school counselor in the district."
"And most parents wouldn't admit to handing their kids over to strangers," Daisy added.
I frowned, my mind racing with possibilities. "They seem to target kids with behavioral problems. We should focus on students with disciplinary records."
"What I don't understand," Michael said, "is how Rory managed to send that text message asking for help, while Neal couldn't even remember what happened to him."
"Maybe different kids respond differently to whatever they're doing," Daisy suggested.
"Or maybe they're experimenting," I said darkly, the thought making my skin crawl. "Refining their techniques with each subject."
"But why?" Thomas asked. "What's their endgame? Eliminating future criminals? Some kind of social experiment?"
The investigation was becoming complicated. We could only pin our hopes on Ruben's memory of the suspects.
Hours later, the sketch artist finally completed the composite sketches based on Ruben's descriptions. Three faces stared back from the paper: a middle-aged man with glasses and two younger men in their thirties.
"These aren't great," I said. "Ruben's descriptions were vague—almost unhelpful. None of them have particularly distinctive features."
Thomas stared at the sketches, particularly at the middle-aged man. His brow furrowed.
"I know this guy," he said slowly. "I've seen him somewhere before."
Daisy looked surprised. "Your perfect memory failing you? That's a first."
"The sketch might not be accurate enough," I suggested, examining the drawing.
Thomas kept staring at the sketch, focusing on the small detail of beaded bracelet on the man's wrist. "I know I've seen him. I just can't place where."
Daisy patted his shoulder sympathetically. "I'll get you some Starbucks. Your brain probably needs fuel."
"Thanks," Thomas muttered, not looking up from the sketch. "I'll remember. I always do."
---
After our shift ended, Michael and I were heading to his car. The parking lot was nearly empty, with only a few vehicles scattered around.
"Emily." Michael nudged me, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.
I spotted Chief Finch waving at us—well, at Michael specifically. He stood next to his SUV, his face serious even from this distance.
"Go ahead," I told Michael. "I'll wait in the car."
Michael handed me his keys and walked over to the chief. I unlocked his car, slipped into the passenger seat, and watched their conversation through the windshield. The chief's gestures seemed grave, and Michael's body tensed visibly.
Whatever news Finch was delivering, it clearly wasn't good.
After a few minutes, they shook hands, and Michael headed back to the car.
When he slid into the driver's seat, he didn't start the engine immediately.
"Marriage really changes everything," he said, staring straight ahead.
"Marriage?" I blinked in surprise. "Is Chief Finch getting remarried?"
Michael turned to me, confusion briefly flashing across his eyes. "What? No." He shook his head. "That's not—" He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Alicia Powell killed herself. She slit her wrists at home a few days ago."
The news hit me like a physical blow. "No way," I whispered. "That can't be right. I saw her at school last time. She was getting better."
"Apparently not," Michael's voice was flat.
Michael started the engine. "This fits the pattern of what we're investigating, doesn't it?"
"You think she was 'reformed' too?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
I considered the possibilities.
"Alicia fits their selection criteria, she had many behavioral issues," I analyzed. "But Alicia was different from the others. Her grandfather's status and position isn't something others would dare to mess with."
If something happened to Alicia, the case would definitely be thoroughly investigated. That group has always operated discreetly, leaving no evidence behind, so Alicia shouldn't have been their target.
"Maybe it's just a coincidence," Michael said. "We should talk to Avery Powell tomorrow. Find out what happened before Alicia died."