The old way of getting inside the building has been barred off. We begin testing doors, then loading bays, finding luck with a back entrance to the old Target.
The heavy door groans as I pull on it. Burger growls at the darkness that greets us inside.
“It’s okay, boy,” Teagan says.
She activates the flashlight app on her phone, leading the way down a short hall, past what used to be offices, into the store proper.
“This place is a tomb,” Teagan says, her voice echoing off the walls.
“Most of the squatters hang out in the food court,” I say.
We head for the mall’s interior. There aren’t as many people milling about as I remember, but the weather’s been decent.
After a short walk, we come upon what looks like a small village camped out in the food court. In place of Chinese food and Taco Bell, the merchants appear to be selling heroin, fake IDs, and crystal meth. We show Kenzie’s photo to anyone who doesn’t scatter at the sight of Burger.
A pair of escalators stand frozen at the mouth of the food court. I notice a thin guy with a moustache watching us intently from halfway up the steps.
We approach a group of kids who look to be around our age or a bit younger standing around a cluster of benches.
“Have any of you seen this girl?” Teagan asks, holding up a picture of Kenzie.
One guy says he might’ve seen her, while the others either say nothing or shake their heads.
A girl with dreadlocks points to the guy on the escalator.
“He might’ve seen her,” she says.
My gaze follows her finger. The lower half of the guy’s face glows orange as he takes a drag off his cigarette. From the way some of the other kids glance at him, I get the feeling he’s someone important.
Teagan thanks the girl, and we make the short march to the foot of the escalator.
“Hi,” Teagan calls up to the guy. “We’re looking for our friend. Mind telling us if you’ve seen her?”
The guy stubs out his cigarette and comes down a few steps to meet us on equal footing. He’s tall and lanky and smells like cigarette smoke and cumin. He takes Teagan’s phone and studies Kenzie’s picture for what feels like a long time.
“There was a new girl last night,” he says in a deeper voice than I expected. “Passed through, dressed in a dirty hoodie and sweatpants.”
“Where’d you see her?” I ask.
He hands Teagan back her phone, then points in the opposite direction from the one we came in. “Saw her crawl into one of the old boutiques. Haven’t seen her since.”
Teagan swipes to a different picture on her phone. “Could it have been her?”
“Could be.” He shrugs. “Hard to say. What you want her for?”
“She went missing a few days ago,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
Adrenaline pulses through me. I’m practically jogging as we make our way to the other end of the dark mall.
“Wait up, Holly,” Teagan says.
But I can’t slow down. If the girl he saw was in fact Kenzie, I know exactly where she is. She’ll be hiding out in the old makeup and jewelry boutique where we used to sleep.
I’m forced to stop running when I outpace Teagan’s flashlight. I shift from foot to foot, anxious to find Kenzie. Anxious that I’ll get to the store and she won’t be there.
Teagan catches up. The boutique’s glass storefront is cracked, but not shattered. I whisper Kenzie’s name as we step through the door.
The linoleum floor is filthy. Aside from a couple of chairs, some empty boxes, and a shelving unit, nothing from the store remains. Just garbage carried in by squatters.
“Let’s check the back,” I say.
Burger growls as we move closer to the back office. I reach for the door handle. It’s not locked, but something’s propped against the door from the inside. I push. The door gives, sliding the chair that was blocking it further into the small office.
Teagan shines her flashlight through the opening. “Is she in there?”
I see an old desk and a pile of what looks like clothes on the dirty linoleum.
“Kenzie?” I whisper. My heart pounds.
The pile of clothing stirs, grows legs, and slowly rolls over.
I hear a soft, tremulous voice.
“Hollywood?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Caleb
Russell King leads the way downstairs, clutching the red silk sheet around his waist.
“My guards are around here somewhere,” he says. “And you can bet your asses they’re armed.”
“We took care of your guards before we grabbed you, counselor,” I say. “Everyone invited to this party’s already present and accounted for.”
King drops gracelessly off the bottom step. His gaze darts toward the now faceless home-security system console, with its wires and microchip innards dangling from the wall.
“Keep walking,” Jonah growls, nudging him forward with the muzzle of his gun.
We file into King’s office.
“Where’s the safe?” I ask, though I recall exactly where it is.