Caine returned at noon. He didn't look like he drank everyone under the table but he had. He also didn't look happy.

He slammed his computer bag onto the chair across from the couch.

“Not a fucking scrap. No Chaney Smith, no Chaney. No nothing. She's a ghost.”

“How could she be a ghost? She's like seventeen or eighteen. She has a past.”

Caine was furious and I was more so.

The knock at the door had me throwing it open again and hoping it was the ...