Baby Gone — Gone

Patrick didn't think. He didn't reach for a badge he didn't have or a gun he shouldn't carry. He just ran.

He drove. He told himself he was going to tell her to go home, to let the police handle it, to stop being a ghost hunter. But when he pulled up to the curb, he saw Angie standing under a rusted oak tree, her coat collar turned up against the wind. She didn't look at him; she looked at a black SUV idling near the swing sets. Gone Baby Gone

By the time the sirens echoed off the nearby triple-deckers, the man was pinned, and the little girl was safely in Angie’s arms. The mother was hysterical, clutching her child, sobbing out thank-yous that felt hollow in the cold air. Patrick didn't think

The man in the SUV opened his door. He didn't rush. He walked with the practiced ease of someone who belonged there. He moved toward the sandbox. The mother was laughing at something on her screen, her back turned. He drove

Patrick watched the man in the SUV. He saw the way the driver’s hand stayed on the gear shift. He saw the predatory stillness. It was a movie he had seen before, and he knew how the reel ended.

"Patrick," the voice was low, breathless. It was Angie. They hadn’t spoken since the night he chose the law over her heart. "I’m standing outside a park in Quincy. There’s a woman here. She’s been watching a little girl for three hours."