On the wall across from me is a corkboard covered in missing persons. So many of them, they’re hanging off the edges and dangling by pushpins. All women. The most recent date, from what I can see, is just three days ago, and I study the picture of the woman, about my age, with mid-length brown hair and dark eyes. A bright smile stares back at me that morphs into a terrified scream echoing inside my head, as I imagine her horrific end. I clamp my eyes on a gasp to shut it up and tune it out. Happens sometimes, when I look at people. I don’t even know who the screams belong to, but they’re so
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