“Sarah started her ministry about three years ago. Like I said, she gets women off the streets. As a group, they make herbal soaps and scrubs and sell them in town. The products are quite popular.”

“What’s the percentage of women under her ministry who stay clean and off the streets?” Ramsey asked.

“Over seventy percent.”

“Impressive.”

They got out of the car and walked to the double front doors. He deliberately reached it first, pulling it open.

“You might have to stop doing that,” she said as she passed.

“Opening doors?”

She paused as she raised her gaze to a large cross hanging on the wall. “If any of the guys see you treat me as a prim and proper lady, I’ll never live it down.”

He cracked a small grin, and for the first time in a long time felt a lightness of spirit. “I’m not worried about you. My guess is that you can eat the lunch of anyone at TBI.”

“True. But they can turn into a bunch of middle school kids. And that gets annoying.” She walked up to a bell hanging on the wall and rang it.

Seconds later a petite woman appeared. In her midthirties, she had a thick shock of red hair tied up on her head, ivory skin, and freckles that splashed over the bridge of her nose. Her jeans and sweatshirt were covered in speckles of blue paint. She was wiping the same hue from her hands with an old rag.

“Melina,” she said, smiling.

“Sarah, I’d like you to meet FBI agent Jerrod Ramsey. Agent Ramsey, Reverend Beckett. She runs the Mission.”

Ramsey extended his hand. “Pleasure.”

“I’d shake your hand, but you don’t want to be near me. I know a good suit when I see one.”

His hand remained extended. “I’m not worried.”

She wiped her hands on a rag and grasped his. “Can I get you two some coffee? We just put a big pot on. You can ask me anything you want.”

They followed her into the kitchen where a tall stocky man dressed in jeans and a white apron was setting up a row of plates on a stainless steel counter.

“This is Sam Jenkins,” Reverend Beckett said. “He’s my right-hand man.”

Sam was in his late thirties and was carrying an extra twenty pounds on his frame. Dark brown hair brushed the top of his collar. He wiped his hands on his apron and extended one to Ramsey. “I hope you’re keeping Melina out of trouble?”

Shepard shot him a look that was both familiar and irritated. “Sam.”

Grinning, Sam held up his hands. “I get it. Official business.”

Shepard’s cheeks burned as her shoulders stiffened.

“Agent Shepard is the reason I’m here. She tangled with a man I’ve been chasing for years.”

Frowning, Sam poured three cups of coffee. “We all heard about it. Some of the residents are still upset. Hell, I’m still upset.”

Shepard cleared her throat. “What are you doing now?”

Sam’s brow rose, as if he knew she was trying to divert the conversation. “We’re setting up for a catering class. The goal is to teach the residents practical job skills. In this town, someone’s always looking for food-service workers. Melina’s one of our best instructors.”

“What do you teach?” Ramsey asked.

“Self-defense,” Shepard said.

“And cake decorating,” Sam added. “She makes one hell of a sugar flower.”

Shepard groaned. “You’re killing me.”

Sam winked. “What? Can’t wield a gun and a piping bag?”

Ramsey did not comment as they all took their coffees and left the kitchen, finding their way to a small conference room. The walls were decorated with large snapshots of residents in the kitchen, in Bible study, and in self-defense class. His gaze was drawn to the latter, keying in on a picture of Shepard wearing sweats and a determined grin as she flipped a man nearly twice her size.

Reverend Beckett closed the door and sat. “There’s been no sign of the two missing women. Melina has called twice a day to check.”

“Are you sure they didn’t leave town?” Ramsey asked. “It’s not unusual.”

“Both women have children, which I know doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll stay. But both were making progress toward getting clean.”

“Easy to fall off the wagon,” Ramsey said. “Failure rate with addicts is high.”

“I’ve considered that. But I don’t think that’s the case. Something feels really off about this,” Reverend Beckett said.

“Do you have pictures of the missing women?” Ramsey asked.

“I do.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out two images printed onto computer paper. “I take a picture of every woman who enters the program here. It’s not only for identification purposes, but I also document it as their ‘before’ picture. You’d be amazed at some of the transformations.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Anyway, I also try to collect a full history, but they aren’t always forthcoming at first. And others tend to tell you what they believe you want to hear.”

Ramsey studied the unsmiling, drawn faces. Both women had shoulder-length dark hair and appeared to be in their early twenties. “Did any of the women mention the man in the van?”

“A few girls remembered seeing it two weeks ago. They all joked that he was a virgin, meaning he’s never paid for sex in the Bottom before. I didn’t even remember the van until Melina’s encounter with its driver,” she said. “All of them thought there was something off about the guy.”

Ramsey wondered how many of the women really remembered the van after Agent Shepard’s attack by the Key Killer. Memories were a tricky thing. They were easily suggestible and not wholly reliable. The women’s fear of a killer hunting women like them could easily inject itself into their subconscious and taint their recollections.

“And you think the missing girls got into that van?” he asked.

“I’m not entirely sure. I do know the usual girls on the streets are present and accounted for as of yesterday.”

That was because the killer did not have his van. It was his base of operations. Without it, he might be sidelined until he found another. That might have bought them a little time. “What did the girls say about the van?” Ramsey asked.

“Like I told Melina, it was driving around the Bottom. This van never stopped, but it passed by enough that it was noticed.”

“You said they considered him a virgin. Anyone get a look at the driver?” he asked.

Reverend Beckett lifted her cup to her lips. “They described a man with black hair.”

“The guy who came for me was wearing a blond wig,” Shepard said.

“Reasonable that he’s altering his appearance on a regular basis,” Ramsey said.

“Some thought he might have been a businessman or a ‘nice guy’ from the suburbs.” She made air quotes with her hands. “They get types like that. Men who want to try the forbidden fruit but haven’t quite summoned the nerve to cross the line.”

“The women have seen this behavior before. What bothered them about him?” Ramsey wanted specifics, which generally supported real memories.

Reverend Beckett cradled her cup. “He stared at them for a long time. Gave them the creeps,” she said.

“They’ve all been stared at before,” Ramsey said.

“My boss said the same thing. The ones who survive life on the streets develop a sixth sense. They know when something is off. Without it they don’t last long.”

“Can you clarify?” Ramsey asked.

“One girl said he was wearing gloves and sunglasses. It was hot and dark.”

“Did anyone see his face?” Ramsey knew he was likely repeating Jackson’s interview, but sometimes a day or two could jog something loose. Even if the memories were not wholly accurate, they could have enough elements of truth to lead to something more substantial.

“Not that I know. But I’ll keep asking.”

“Where did they see him?”

“Seven blocks from here. He was on Southside Avenue across from the tire store.”

A clatter from the other room had Reverend Beckett rising.

“I’ve got it,” Shepard said. “Be right back.”

“We’re mixing up the oils for the new line of hand soap,” Reverend Beckett said.

“How long has Agent Shepard volunteered here?” Ramsey asked.

“For a couple of years. Did she tell you we grew up in the same neighborhood?”

“She did.”

“Both our moms were teachers and both our dads cops. She’s genuine. She’d do anything for you, but she takes too many chances.”

“Does she say the same about you?” he countered.

Reverend Beckett grinned. “Two peas in a pod.”

“What are the names of the missing women?” Ramsey asked.

“Delia and Joy. Each uses the last name Smith, but I doubt it’s either of their real surnames.”

“Has anyone been by their residence?”

“Delia lives on the streets. Joy stays in a small room over her sister’s garage. I did contact Joy’s sister, but she’s not seen Joy in two weeks.”

“What’s the sister’s name?” he asked.

“Emily Ross. I can pull up her contact information for you.”

“That would be appreciated.”

Shepard reappeared. “It was Sadie. She dropped a tub of coconut oil. Some spillage. Sam is cleaning it up. I asked Sadie if she would talk to Agent Ramsey.”