Chapter 57

LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS

Poppy sits across from Chantelle Luna at the Chipotle on Fourth Street. The young KBI forensic analyst wrinkles her nose at the fist-sized burrito in front of her.

“You’re serious, this is the first time you’ve been to Chipotle?” Poppy asks. To be fair, Leavenworth didn’t get a Chipotle until last year. But Chantelle’s from out of town. How could she possibly not have… Whatever.

Poppy takes her own burrito in her two small hands, like she’s demonstrating, then takes a big bite. “Trust me,” Poppy says with too big a mouthful.

Chantelle cocks her head to the side, assessing the bundle of meat and beans and cheese. She picks up the plastic knife and fork, contemplating where to begin, but Poppy shakes her head, signals that she needs to use her hands.

Chantelle releases a sigh and takes a bite. Poppy watches, expecting her face to light up, but Chantelle is more reserved. She chews slowly, like she’s swirling wine in her mouth.

She nods approvingly, and Poppy says, “See!”

Poppy likes this woman. She’s—what’s the word?—effervescent. And she provides Poppy a brief reprieve from worrying about her father. When Poppy stopped at the hospital, the asshole doctor said her father was stable but still in the ICU on a ventilator, and shooed her away again.

Poppy slurps her fountain drink through the straw and says, “You said you found something with the guy’s suit.”

Following up on the FBI agent’s lead, Poppy asked Chantelle to focus on tracking the dead guy’s suit.

Chantelle’s already put down the burrito, which has started to fall apart.

“First off,” Chantelle says, “how’d you crack that book cipher? I’ve got every expert in the state working on it and Poppy McGee cracks that shit?” She smiles, seems to get a kick out of saying Poppy’s full name.

Poppy looks around, makes sure no one is in earshot. She tells Chantelle about the call from the UK police; about the dead man who fits the description of the man Ryan Richardson identified all those years ago as Alison’s abductor; about her call with Ryan and his crazy tale of the man tracking him down, then ending up brutally murdered by a guy with an axe.

Chantelle is speechless, her mouth agape.

Poppy doesn’t tell her the rest of the story. That Alison Lane’s dad killed the two men in the car; that Poppy’s own father is involved; that her brother witnessed it all.

“What’s ‘find me in the clouds’ mean?” Chantelle asks.

Poppy shakes her head. “I don’t know, but Ryan does.” Poppy thinks of the young man on the FaceTime call. You could almost see the lightbulb turn on over his head before he killed the line.

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to get a trace on his cell, but it’s complicated since he’s in the UK.”

Chantelle nods.

Poppy decides to share more. “But after he read the note, he had a revelation. He said, ‘Ali’s alive.’” Poppy doesn’t mention that Dash had said the same thing.

Chantelle’s eyes sparkle again, like this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to her. “You think that’s possible?”

“I do.”

“Poppy McGee in the house.” Chantelle raises her soft drink as if for a toast.

“What’d you find on the dead guy’s clothes?” Poppy asks.

Chantelle retrieves her phone from her oversized handbag. Unlike Poppy in her brown uniform that’s too big, Chantelle is dressed fashionably. Her handbag has logos that look expensive, but Poppy has no clue.

“Your FBI friend was right. The suit is unusual. It’s custom.”

“She’s not my friend. I’m not supposed to be talking to her.” Poppy tells her about the agent and her weird talk of Holy Fools and Warren Harding.

“That’s some Malcolm Gladwell shit,” Chantelle says, as she pulls up something on her phone.

Poppy doesn’t understand the Gladwell reference but doesn’t say so. She’ll look it up later.

Chantelle continues: “The suit is expensive, bespoke tailoring.”

Poppy shakes her head, lost again.

“Custom-made, basically.” On her phone, Chantelle displays a blown-up image of a small label. It has a MARINANI BESPOKE, PHILADELPHIA, and a seven-digit number.

Poppy has a burst of adrenaline, seeing where this is going. “The tailor keeps track of their custom designs. They’ll be able to track who bought it?”

“One way to find out,” Chantelle says, holding up the phone.