came out of the Prius speakers. “Hey, I just came from Foley’s house and I need you to check out a Summer Parker for me,” Ron said, steering the car with one hand and holding the missing persons flier with the other. “Summer Parker,” Rodriguez repeated. “Check the Illinois missing persons data banks and see what you come up with,” he said, listening to Rodriguez typing in the background. “Got it.” “Hey, any word on the kid in the pickup?” The typing stopped and the humming tires gripping pavement filled the car. “Hello?” “He didn’t make it,” Rodriguez said somberly. “Skull fracture.” Ron stared blankly out across the open road ahead. “Damn,” he whispered. The wheels picked up the slack in conversation and droned on. “Did he say anything else before he died?” “Nothing out of the ordinary.” The boy’s words floated back through Ron’s mind as the streetlights flipped by. He knew that somehow the teen’s words were connected to whatever happened to Amy Miller.
