So I filled the gaps the old-fashioned way.
I followed the road.
I followed the timestamps.
And every time I found the car again, I added another piece to the trail.
Twenty minutes later, I had a route.
The trail ended at an upscale shopping district on the other side of the city, the kind of place where the mannequins cost more than a month of rent.
I pulled up the private security feeds around the area and searched the timestamps.
I watched Sparrow walk in with Tasha at his side, and I watched him walk out with a woman who made my stomach drop. The white dress hugged her curves, long and clean and pure, accentuating every line of her figure, and her face had been wiped clean of every trace of the careful makeup she had worn into that hotel, and she looked like a bride from a magazine spread, beautiful and untouched and completely out of place in the hands of a man like Sparrow.
Nothing about that look was an accident. The way she walked, the way she kept her eyes downcast, the way the dress moved around her like water, it was all deliberate, all staged, and I had no idea whether he was dressing her up like a lamb to shear or to slaughter. What was Sparrow up to?


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