She took a seat in the chair that faced the desk. The young detective stood across from her. He was about Mac’s height, six-foot-one, but much beefier. Olive skinned, he had small, uninspiring, wide-set eyes and a cleft chin. His suit looked expensive but it was badly in need of pressing. “I hear you and Tiffany were best friends?” he said softly, his eyes probing hers. “Not were. Are,” she corrected, politely. Tiffany had now been missing three nights and Haley had no clue where she could be. If she’d gone somewhere voluntarily, she would have told her. She needed answers. She needed sleep. Although she’d tried her best to talk with Charles to find out what exactly happened on Saturday night, she hadn’t been successful. “You were with her on Saturday night at a bar—” he paused and flipped open a notebook encased in a smooth, black leather cover. “Provost’s. You were at Provost’s with her the night she disappeared?” Disappeared. The word sounded ominous, horrible.
