Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“Your number’s on here?” he asks, squinting to read my tiny writing on the form. “Ah, there it is. We’ll be in touch.”
My eye twitches at his response. “When?”
“When we have something to report.”
“That’s it?”
“What were you expecting, ma’am?”
I gape at him, disgusted by his rudeness. “To do your job. To immediately start working on the case!”
“My job is to input this into the computer and if I get any hits, I’ll follow up and let you know. That’s me working on the case, kid.”
Unbelievable.
I’m tempted to call Dad and get him involved, but I quickly push that thought away. The whole reason I moved out here was to get away from his influence, not bring it with me. Yes, Dad would get this sloth cop to do something, but it’d come at a cost. He’d want to know why I was getting involved in all this and it wouldn’t take long for him to see how frayed I am over it. Then he’d think I wasn’t hacking it out on my own and would want me to come back home.
Ugh.
Not doing that.
“Fine,” I grunt out, rising to my feet. “Please hurry. She’s probably in danger.”
He doesn’t appear to be moved by my fear-inducing words. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, miss. Most missing adults are missing on purpose. They can’t deal with life, so they run from it.”
I try not to grimace at his words that parallel my own life.
“At least try to get in touch with her family,” I mutter. “And if you learn that she’s safe, please let me know so I can stop worrying.”
He forces a smile. “Sure thing.”
I wait for a few long seconds to see if he’ll get to working on inputting the form into the computer right away, but instead, he goes back to scrolling on his phone, the paper discarded on his chaotic desk, probably forgotten.
This is ridiculous.
I’m going to have to find her myself.
I hurry out of the police station, eager to get away from the filthy detective. Once I’m seated in my car that smells of vanilla sugar cookies, I relax and continue my hunt on Instagram to see if she’s responded to me or posted anything.
Still nothing.
I painstakingly look through each and every account she follows—all four thousand two hundred and fifty-three of them. The one account that gives me pause is a name I’ve seen before.
Crowne Unity Project.
The aesthetic for their page is crisp navy and shiny gold—an extension of their pamphlet I’d found. It’s overly curated to show perfectly captured humanitarian efforts, educational program benefits, environmental projects, and celebrity endorsements or collaborations. Everything about it screams fake to me.
Don’t chase rabbits that don’t exist, Romy.
I ignore a mantra Maura always tries to get me to say when she thinks my thoughts are running away from me and making up things that aren’t really there.
There’s something strange about CUP, though. I just can’t put my finger on it.
When my scrolling finally brings me to someone not smiling, I stop. The white-haired man is older, maybe in his late sixties, and sits at the end of a boardroom table, hands steepled, expression fierce. The description reads, “Orion Crowne carries humanity on his shoulders and he takes his job seriously. The world depends on him.” It’s littered with catchy hashtags like #CUPvision, #HopeForAll, and #CUPgivesback.
This man, Orion Crowne, seems to be the face of the organization. Based on CUP’s social media presence, probably ran by some intern around my age, he’s serious about making the world a better place.
I don’t remember Megan mentioning ever wanting to be involved in CUP. But she had a brochure and also follows them. With her sudden disappearance, I can’t rule it out. This feels like an important clue to me. I spend far too long searching through all the photos but don’t find anything of interest. I’m about to close out the app and head back to USC when a new post comes through.
The picture is of a well-known pop singer hugging a small child from a destitute foreign country. The caption says, “Looking forward to seeing Cazey Tee at tonight’s annual fundraiser where she’ll be speaking about her recent trip to Haiti!”
A quick Google search tells me this year’s fundraiser is located in San Francisco. Something deep in my gut urges me to find a way to go.
I need answers.
I know I’ll get them there.
Since the event is invite only, I’ll have to lean on my Langston resources if I want to get in. Not wasting a second, I tap out a text to Sarai.
Me: I don’t want to bother Dad, but I need to get into an event tonight. It’s for a school project.
After I shoot her a screenshot of the website and event details, I wait for a response. It only takes my dad’s assistant fifteen minutes to reply with what I need.