Another patrol car pulled up to the curb, its tires brushing the curb with a low scrape. A male officer got out, his boots clicking on the asphalt as he headed toward us.
We walked along the side of the split-level house, our shoes sinking into the dry mulch of the flowerbeds. Officer Boyd tapped on the first low window, her knuckles making a dull sound against the double-paned glass.
“Locked,” she muttered, moving to the next one.
I looked past her shoulder toward the empty wooden carport at the back of the house. The concrete pad was swept clean, and the rusted metal lawn chairs were stacked neatly in the corner, but the space where Cassandra usually parked her white sedan was entirely bare.
“Cassandra’s car is gone,” I said, pointing toward the empty structure. “She was supposed to be at her office in Bloomington today.”
