By noon, the staff breakroom was empty, the air thick with the scent of microwaved soup and stale coffee.

I sat at the corner laminate table, staring at a paper cup of black coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago.

Detective Harris sat opposite me, his tan trench coat thrown over the back of the plastic chair.

He looked tired, his grey eyes fixed on his small notepad.

“We checked Caleb’s residence again this morning,” Harris said, clicking his silver ballpoint pen once.

“He wasn’t there.”