“Are there any other girls here?” he asks, but the tone of his voice tells me he already knows the answer. “No. It’s only me.” He nods and clamps down again. “Maybe Lola got away,” I offer, trying to give him some shred of hope back. “She could be—” “Does that jacket have ‘L.E.S.’ sewn into the hip tag?” he asks. I grab at the hem and fold it up. A tag pops out. L.E.S. is stitched in rose gold thread. “It’s hers,” he says. “Lola Elizabeth Scott. If she got away, she would have made it home by now, and if she had, I wouldn’t be here. So if she’s not here, and she’s not at home…she never left
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