The desert sky was a river of ribbons. Under the giant white tent tiny lights twinkled. At least that was what Deana imagined as she and Bobbie drove into the desert. This music festival is the hottest ticket of the summer, of the year, maybe of the decade. Deana hugged herself as Fitzwilliam’s car cut into the sand. Fitzwilliam smiled

Hannah was talking to the piece of shit now. Robert Fitzwilliam sat smug in his prison grays. Paul paced behind her chair. This was hopeless, he thought. Hannah was his partner and his respected her. But Hannah insisted on believing by appealing to this creature’s humanity they could get clues on the missing women. Paul scrubbed at his face.

Fitzwilliam leaned across the table. The stench of the man’s body odor above the prison smell of disinfectant slapped at Hannah. The detective controlled her face. During the search of Fitzwilliam’s motorhome a stack of photos had been found hidden in a vent. Some smiling, some not, the women in snapshots were nameless, possibly missing, possibly worse. Fitzwilliam traced a finger on one of the faces.

Paul pounded the table. The photocopies shivered as the cop banged and shouted. Fitzwilliam leaned back as far as his restraints allowed. Not in fear, the prisoner just wanted a good view of the cop losing his religion. Hannah pushed and held Paul back. The guards came in, Pratt and Wick. Roughly Pratt unshackled the prisoner as Wick sucker punched Fitzwilliam’s in his side. The guards pulled the prisoner away.

The night was becoming ink. Deana wondered why there were no other cars on the road. Fear trickled down her back. Deana looked around seeing only seguras and the gray highway in Fitzwilliam’s car’s headlights. She shook her doubts away and focused on the festival, on the music, and the celebrities, and the pretty lights.