Nate looked at Mr. Banks. The tall man was bending forward, willowy limbs almost touching the pavement, round-rimmed glasses testing gravity.
“Aha, as in what?” Nate asked.
“As in I believe we have a lead.”
Nate felt his eyes fill. False hope was the worst. The desperation with which he clung to the possibility.
The detective straightened. He pointed at the photo, then the pavement. “See her ponytail? See this? Her hair tie broke. Runaway or not, she would have tried to get a replacement. The pharmacy across the alley is the closest. They may well have footage.”
Photo prompt: © CEAyr
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers