Striker made it there in ten.

The listed address came back to a small rancher-style house, located on the north side of Parker Street. In the dark of winter, the place looked abandoned and secluded. A barren cherry tree covered most of the front yard, its long bony branches reaching up into the night sky like arthritic fingers. Inside the house, all the lights were turned on. But there was no movement inside.

Striker parked the car and jumped out. Felicia followed suit.

‘I don’t see any movement,’ she noted.

‘Me, either.’

As he spoke, Striker absently touched the butt of his pistol, tugged on it to make sure it was snug in its holster. Then made his way up the sidewalk.

The front stairs were slippery with frost, and he took them slowly, one hand on the railing, one hand free and ready for a quick draw. When he reached the front door, he saw that it was already ajar. Just an inch, but definitely open.

He showed this to Felicia.

‘Be ready.’

She drew her pistol and took a position of cover on the right side of the door frame, out of the direct line of fire; seeing this, Striker took the left. When they were both lined up, he gave her the nod and then knocked hard on the door.

‘Larisa!’ he called. ‘Larisa, it’s Jacob Striker. With the Vancouver Police Department!’

No answer.

‘Larisa, I got your message!’ he called again.

But still, nothing.

He pushed the door all the way open, and it moved silently, exposing the hallway, living room and kitchen beyond.

‘Larisa!’ he called. ‘It’s Jacob Striker! Felicia Santos is with me. We’re coming inside!’

He and Felicia moved inside the foyer, then shut and locked the door behind them – they didn’t want anyone sneaking up behind them. Once done, Striker gestured for Felicia to cover the right side of the room. When she nodded her understanding, he took the left. Together, they cleared the entire floor, room by room, starting with the den and office and finishing with the bedroom and ensuite in the back of the house.

They found no one.

‘She’s not here,’ Felicia finally said. ‘Shit. Where did she call you from?’

‘Her cell.’

‘Was she home at the time?’

‘She didn’t say. It was a message.’

He spoke the words without paying attention; his main focus was on the area around them. Something about the room bothered him. Something about all the rooms bothered him. Tugged away at the back of his mind like an invisible string.

He holstered his gun and moved slowly from the bedroom, down the long carpeted hallway, into the living room and den area. He stood at the entrance to the kitchen and looked back and forth between the rooms.

Felicia followed him.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

He said nothing and just looked around. On the kitchen counter and table were piles of dirty plates and leftover food. By the stove, a pile of spaghetti had been dropped on the floor and never cleaned up. In the far corner of the room were piles of newspapers and bags of empty cans.

‘The place is a pigsty,’ he noted.

‘Some people are messy.’

‘This is beyond messy. And the door was left open. With the heat blasting. I know Larisa – she would never live this way.’

‘How would you know? Have you ever been to her place before?’

‘No. But I have been to her office. And in her car. Everything is always neat and tidy. Clean. Orderly. This . . . this isn’t her.’ He walked outside and checked the address. It was correct. They were at the right house. ‘Maybe she moved,’ he added. ‘Maybe someone else lives here now.’

‘Let me get the computer,’ Felicia said. ‘I’ll check out her history, see what I can drum up.’

He nodded, and she returned to the car.

While she was gone, Striker made his way back down to the bedroom. On the bureau was a family photograph. The picture was of Larisa with two other women, so this was definitely her house.

It struck him as odd.

He moved closer and focused in on the photograph. It looked like Larisa and her family – presumably her mother and sister. They were smiling, happy, looked like they had been laughing about something.

A hidden joke between them all.

Striker continued looking around. Piled beside the photograph was a stack of newspaper clippings. And on the wall were more of the same. Stories. Articles. Clipped out and stuck to the walls. Some were from tabloids and magazines; others from more reputable sources.

He read through them all. Across the front of one story – where a man had thrown himself out of a window on the sixth floor of the Regency Hotel – someone had used a big thick felt pen to write: LIES! LIES! LIES!

The collage of articles made bad thoughts filter through Striker’s head, and he hoped he was wrong in what he was thinking. Then he heard Felicia re-enter the house through the front door. He went to meet her.

When he reached the living room, he found her standing at the kitchen table with the laptop open. She was reading through a list of entries on the PRIME database.

‘What you got?’ he asked.

She gave him a queer look. ‘How well do you know this woman, Jacob?’

‘Well enough.’

‘Do you? When was the last time you talked to her?’

‘I dunno. A while ago,’ he admitted. ‘Probably just over a year – why, Feleesh? What are you getting at?’

‘I’m getting at this.’ She turned the computer around so he could see the screen. The first thing that caught his eye were three letters, marked in big red font:

MHA.

‘Mental Health Act?’ he said. ‘What the hell?’

Felicia nodded. ‘Turns out this Larisa you know has had a lot of problems since she left the Victim Services Unit.’

‘Problems?’ Striker looked up from the laptop. ‘What do you mean?’

Felicia took the laptop back and clicked through the electronic reports. ‘According to PRIME, Larisa Logan has been listed as a Disturbed Person numerous times.’

Striker raised an eyebrow. Disturbed Person was a politically correct label for bat-shit crazy.

‘Must be a mistake.’

Felicia continued reading through the reports. ‘I wish it was, Jacob. But I don’t think so. It looks like Larisa actually left her position with Victim Services twelve months ago and took some kind of personal leave. Could be stress-related. I’m not sure. It doesn’t really say.’

Striker closed his eyes and thought back. ‘Twelve months . . . . That was right about the time I had my last session with her. Or maybe thirteen months – it was before Christmas. And then she took stress leave?’

Felicia grinned. ‘Yeah. Must’ve been your boyish charms.’

He didn’t respond. He just began reading through the reports.

While he did this, Felicia took a moment to look around the room. After a few minutes, she returned with a large piece of paper in her hands. On it was a list of strange scribblings. It was confusing and nonsensical. Written gibberish. But some names were there.

Striker saw two names that he recognized:

Mandy.

Billy.

He pointed to them. ‘That could be Mandilla Gill. And that could be this Billy guy . . . Ostermann’s patient.’

Felicia didn’t look so assured. ‘There’s over thirty names here, Jacob. It could be a lot of things with all these scribblings. But yeah, sure, the names do match.’

Striker read through all the scribbles until he spotted one name he did not recognize. Unlike the other names, this one had been underlined several times:

Sarah.

He wrote the name down in his notebook.

Felicia held up a pile of more newspaper clippings – tabloid stuff about everything from medication frauds and passport scams to the existence of aliens and demons. ‘Jesus Christ, Jacob, look at this stuff. Aliens? Demons? The woman’s gone right off the deep end.’