The Women Who Were Never Missing

I noticed the missing women because there weren't any. For almost eleven months, nobody had walked into our unit clutching a photograph of a daughter who had stopped answering her phone, nobody had sat across from me insisting that a sister would never simply leave without telling somebody, nobody had called from another state because a woman had taken a supposedly wonderful job and then vanished before her first paycheck, and while there were still missing-person reports every day, while women still disappeared from marriages, apartments, jobs and lives for every imaginable reason, the particular kind of disappearance that had filled my desk for years seemed to have become almost embarrassingly rare. For the first few months, I was pleased. I was not naive enough to think we had solved trafficking, but I allowed myself to believe that arrests had helped, that several aggressive prosecutions had frightened the right people, that public awareness campaigns had made recruitment harder and perhaps, in some tiny and temporary way, the world had become slightly less profitable for men who treated women as inventory. Then I began noticing unfamiliar faces. Not in police reports. In surveillance photographs. Vice-unit photographs. Hotel footage. Information passed quietly by women who had worked the same corners or clubs long enough to recognize newcomers, and who had begun referring to them collectively as the strange girls , although most were clearly women somewhere in their twenties. There were more of them every month. That was the contradiction I eventually carried into Lieutenant Moreno's office on a Tuesday morning while he was attempting to eat a breakfast sandwich over an open personnel report. I placed three folders on his desk. He did not look up. “No.” “I haven't asked anything.” “You brought folders.” “That isn't illegal.” “With you, folders are rarely good news.” I sat opposite him. “You want to hear something interesting?” “No.” “You're going to anyway.” “I know.” I opened the first folder and turned it toward him. “These are all trafficking investigations opened by this unit during the previous twelve months.” He glanced down. “I recognize our own reports, Mercer.” “I was hoping.” “Is there a test later?” “Possibly. Look at the source.” He chewed, frowned, and finally gave the pages his attention. “What am I looking for?” “Missing-person referrals.” He flipped one page, then another. “There aren't many.” “Three.” “In a year?” “Three that developed into trafficking investigations.” He leaned back. “That seems unusually low.” “It is.” “Maybe unusually good.” “That was my first thought.” “And your second?” I slid over the next folder. “These are newly identified women appearing in commercial sex investigations during the same period.” He opened it. Photographs. Dates. Locations. Dozens of them. Moreno looked at me, then back at the folder. “Different cities?” “Most first appear here.” “Immigration?” “No consistent route.” “Online recruitment?” “Nothing we can identify.” “Interstate?” “No obvious pattern.” “Boyfriends?” “Almost none.” That got his attention. Trafficking did not always involve a boyfriend, of course, but manipulative romantic recruitment was common enough that its absence mattered. Moreno set down what remained of his breakfast. “So who are they?” “That is what I would like to know.” “And nobody has reported them missing?” “Not one that I can match.” He looked through the photographs again, more slowly this time. “Maybe they aren't missing.” “Then where did they come from?” He shrugged. “The world is large.” “Yes, but people leave traces. Passports. Phones. Relatives. Social media. Medical visits. School records. Employment history. Border records. Somebody remembers them.” “Undocumented migrants leave fewer traces.” “Fewer. Not none.” I opened the third folder. “Informant reports.” Moreno groaned. “I preferred photographs.” “These are better.” “Those words have never been true.” I ignored him. “Several women working in clubs and private houses say the newcomers behave oddly.” “How oddly?” “They don't know how to use phones.” “Could be sheltered.” “Some don't understand elevators.” “Trauma.” “One reportedly screamed when a television turned on.” Moreno looked at me. I continued. “Another tried to open a car door from the outside by pushing on the window because she apparently didn't understand what the handle was.” “That could mean drugs.” “Could.” “Could mean severe coercive control.” “Could.” “Could mean you're constructing a mystery because you've had a quiet month.” “I've never had a quiet month.” “That is unfortunately true.” I folded my hands. “I want to start talking to people.” “You already talk to people.” “I want surveillance money.” “Ah.” “And probably overtime.” “There it is.” “And perhaps access to financial analysis.” “Jenny.” “Two weeks.” “You're requesting two weeks?” “I was going to request a month.” “You have two.” “Three.” “No.” “Two and a half.” “No.” “You bargain terribly.” “So I've been told.” I gathered the folders. Moreno pointed at me. “One more thing.” “What?” “If this turns into some international conspiracy involving diplomats, secret intelligence agencies or technology that doesn't officially exist, you tell me before you do something stupid.” “I always tell you.” “You generally tell me while doing the stupid thing.” “That still counts.” He stared at me. I smiled. At that moment, neither of us understood how unfortunately specific his warning would become. The first person who gave me anything useful was Tasha Bell. Tasha had been working on and off around the same collection of clubs, private parties and escort services for nearly six years, and although she did not exactly consider the police allies, she considered me less objectionable than most of my colleagues, which in our relationship counted as trust. She chose the rear parking lot of an all-night laundromat for our meeting. When I arrived, she was sitting on the hood of an old sedan smoking beneath a sign that specifically prohibited smoking. “You're late,” she said. “Three minutes.” “Late.” “I brought coffee.” “That buys you two.” I handed it to her. She inspected the label. “Vanilla?” “You complained last time.” “I complain about everything.” “Exactly.” She took a sip, decided it was acceptable and looked at me. “So what are you hunting?” “Why do I have to be hunting something?” “Because you don't buy me coffee socially.” “That hurts.” “No, it doesn't.” I leaned against the car beside her. “New women.” Tasha's eyes moved away from me. It was subtle. Enough. “What new women?” “Don't make me work for every sentence.” “You get paid.” “Not enough.” “Nobody does.” “Tasha.” She blew smoke away from me. “You mean the quiet ones.” There it was. “I've heard that phrase twice.” “Then you've heard enough to know I'm not inventing it.” “What does it mean?” She thought for a moment. “Hard to explain.” “Try.” “You know how most new girls act?” “I know how frightened people act.” “No. I don't mean scared.” She frowned, searching for words. “I mean new to the work. They know where they are. They know what phones are. They know how money works. They know what a hotel is. Even somebody brought here from another country knows she's in another country.” “And these women don't?” “Some of them act like they're somewhere else entirely.” “Drugs?” “No.” “You can't know that.” “I know what drugs look like.” “Trauma?” “Sure. Probably. But this isn't just that.” She looked across the parking lot as a washing machine thumped behind the laundromat windows. “There was one at a house near Wilton,” she continued. “Pretty girl. Maybe twenty-three. Dark hair. Barely spoke.” “What language?” “No idea.” “Did anybody?” “Not that I heard.” “And?” “First time they brought her outside, she saw a bus.” I waited. Tasha gave me a tired smile. “She dropped to her knees.” “What?” “Right there on the sidewalk. Covered her head like something was attacking her.” “Maybe she'd never seen that kind of bus.” “She'd never seen traffic , Jenny.” “That is impossible.” “Okay.” “You think she'd never seen cars?” “I think she reacted like she'd never seen anything move that fast without an animal pulling it.” I felt something cold move beneath my ribs. “What happened to her?” “Gone.” “When?” “Two days later.” “Where?” Tasha shrugged. “Different house. Different city. Rich client. Sold. Who knows.” “Who brought her in?” “That's the interesting part.” I looked at her. “Nobody knows.” “Somebody knows.” “Obviously.” “I mean names.” “The girls don't.” “Drivers?” “Different every time.” “Vehicles?” “Changed.” “Recruiters?” “No recruiters.” I straightened. “What do you mean?” “That is what people are starting to whisper about.” “What?” Tasha put out the cigarette beneath her heel. “Some of the organizations aren't recruiting anymore.” “That doesn't make sense.” “I know.” “Then how do they get women?” “They order them.” The word sat between us. “Order them from whom?” “No idea.” “Where do they arrive?” “Different places.” “Airport?” “No.” “Bus?” “No.” “Border?” “Not that anyone sees.” “You've seen arrivals?” “Once.” My attention sharpened. “Where?” She hesitated. “Tasha.” “I shouldn't tell you.” “Then why did you come?” She looked irritated because I had caught her. “House on Hawthorne.” “Number?” “No number.” “Very helpful.” “Yellow door.” “That's my probable-cause affidavit? Yellow door ?” “You'll know it.” “How?” She stared at me. “Because nothing goes in there except food and men, and women come out.” “How many?” “I've seen six.” “Over how long?” “Month.” “Did you speak to any?” “One.” “And?” “She asked me where the horses were.” I thought I had misheard her. “The what?” “Horses.” “What exactly did she say?” “I don't know. Some broken language. She made a horse with her hands, like reins.” Tasha picked up her coffee. “I laughed at her.” “Why?” “Because I thought she was crazy.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “I don't think she was crazy anymore.” We watched the house on Hawthorne for eight days. It had a yellow door. Of course it did. The neighborhood was painfully ordinary, the sort of place where people put seasonal wreaths on their front doors and argued about parking spaces, and the house itself would have disappeared completely if you weren't looking for it; pale siding, small front lawn, no visible cameras, no constant traffic, nothing that announced itself as the temporary storage point for human beings. The first three nights gave us nothing. On the fourth, two men arrived with groceries. On the fifth, another man came carrying a medical cooler. On the sixth, nobody entered. On the seventh night, at 2:48 in the morning, a white cargo van stopped at the curb. I was sitting beside Detective Alvarez in an unmarked car half a block away. “Movement,” he said. “I see it.” The side door opened. Two men stepped out. Then a woman. She wore an oversized modern coat. Underneath it, visible only because the coat opened as she climbed down, was something gray and ankle-length that looked handmade. Another woman followed. Then another. The third woman stopped. She was staring upward. Alvarez whispered, “What is she doing?” At first I thought she was looking at a window. Then I realized she was staring at the streetlamp. Not glancing. Studying it. She stepped toward it and raised one hand. One of the men grabbed her arm so violently she nearly fell. She cried out. We couldn't hear the words through the closed car windows. We didn't need to. I picked up the radio. “Call Moreno.” Alvarez looked at me. “You think this is enough?” “No.” “Then?” “I think we're about to find enough.” By 6:20 we had a warrant. By 6:48 we were inside. The house had been cleared with the efficiency of people who expected police. Mattresses remained. Sheets didn't. Cabinets were empty. Computers had been removed. Several bedrooms contained nothing except cheap beds, folding chairs and bolts fixed into the floor. The bathroom upstairs contained blood on a towel. The kitchen contained food for far more people than we had seen. The basement contained unopened medical supplies and twenty pairs of women's shoes, most still in their boxes. Nothing about it was normal. Nothing about it was enough. Then Alvarez shouted from upstairs. “Mercer!” I ran. He was standing outside a bathroom. “There is somebody inside.” “Armed?” “No.” “Hurt?” “Probably.” “Why aren't you in there?” His expression answered before he spoke. “She loses it when anyone comes close.” I moved into the doorway. The shower curtain was partially closed. Behind it, wedged between the side of the tub and the wall, crouched a woman. She looked somewhere in her mid-twenties. Maybe younger. Dark hair had been cut unevenly at shoulder length, as if somebody had hacked away sections rather than styled it, and she was wearing a pale cotton nightdress over a rougher linen garment that plainly had not been manufactured in the same century as the nightdress. Her wrists were bruised. Her ankles too. She stared at me. I said softly, “My name is Jenny.” Nothing. I touched my chest. “Jenny.” Her eyes moved from my face to the pistol at my hip. I unhooked the holster and handed the weapon to Alvarez without looking away from her. “That better?” No response. I tried French. Then Spanish. Then a few phrases from languages I barely knew. Nothing. A paramedic appeared behind us. The woman screamed. Not startled. Terrified. I raised my hand. “Back.” “We need to—” “Back.” He did. I lowered myself to the bathroom floor. Alvarez looked down at me. “You planning to stay there?” “As long as it takes.” He left. For perhaps ten minutes, I said nothing. The woman cried quietly. Not dramatically. The exhausted kind of crying that seemed to have started long before we arrived. Eventually I pointed to myself again. “Jenny.” She watched my mouth. “Jenny.” Then I pointed toward her. For several seconds, nothing happened. Finally she whispered, “Ysabeau.” The sound was not quite Isabeau as I knew it. Older. Softer. But close. I smiled. “Ysabeau.” Her eyes filled. I repeated it. “Ysabeau.” She whispered something else. I leaned slightly closer. She recoiled. I stopped instantly. “Okay.” She said it again. Three words. Then a longer sentence. The language sounded like French being spoken from a great distance, recognizable only in flashes. I shook my head. “I don't understand.” She began crying harder. I hated that. I hated every second of sitting there unable to answer somebody who plainly believed she was explaining something important. I slowly placed my phone on the floor between us and tapped the recorder. “Can you say it again?” Of course she didn't understand. So I pointed toward her mouth, then the phone. She stared at it. The screen lit. She flinched. I turned the brightness down. “It's okay.” She looked at me. Then at the phone. Then she spoke. A sentence. Another. Then one word she repeated three times while touching her chest. I recorded all of it. Finally she said something that sounded almost like ma sœur . My sister. That much I understood. She covered her face. I stayed on the floor until she uncovered it again. The first two translators called it old French. The third said that description was meaningless without being more specific. The fourth listened to sixteen seconds and immediately said, “You need a historical linguist.” That was how Dr. Rachel Adler entered my life. She arrived at eleven the following morning wearing dark trousers, low black boots and a long charcoal coat, carrying a leather satchel that looked heavy enough to contain bricks. She had dark brown hair pinned loosely at the back of her neck, gray eyes that seemed to notice everything at once, and the controlled expression of somebody who had spent years explaining highly specialized things to people who insisted on simplifying them incorrectly. “Detective Mercer?” “Jenny.” “Rachel Adler.” We shook hands. Her grip was warm. For reasons that annoyed me immediately, I noticed. “I was told you specialize in medieval French.” “I specialize in historical linguistics.” “Which includes medieval French.” “Yes.” “That seems like a very academic way to say yes.” “That seems like a very police way to complain about precision.” I looked at her. She looked at me. Then one corner of her mouth moved. I decided she might be tolerable. I took her into the conference room. “Before you hear this, I should tell you that the woman who made the recording is a trafficking victim and extremely frightened.” Rachel's expression changed at once. Not softer exactly. More attentive. “Has she been medically examined?” “Only partially. Female physician. No restraints. We stopped whenever she became distressed.” “Does she understand where she is?” “No.” “Does she understand who you are?” “I think she knows I am not one of the people who held her.” “That may be enough for the moment.” I opened the recording. Rachel listened. Ten seconds. She frowned. Twenty. Her eyes narrowed. She restarted it. Then again. “Something wrong?” “Quiet.” I leaned back. She put on headphones and listened to the entire recording. Then she replayed four seconds repeatedly. Finally she removed the headphones. “Where did you say you found her?” “In a house used for temporary holding.” “Nationality?” “Unknown.” “Documents?” “None.” “Modern education?” “We don't know.” “Any indication she belongs to a historical reenactment community?” I stared at her. “That is unusually specific.” “Answer.” “No.” “Religious sect?” “Not that we know.” “Academic training?” “She appears unable to recognize a telephone.” Rachel looked at me. “She what?” “She was frightened when the screen lit.” Rachel turned slowly back to the recording. “What?” She did not answer immediately. I waited. Finally she said, “This isn't merely archaic French.” “All right.” “She is using forms that disappeared before what most people casually call Middle French.” “How far before?” Rachel tapped her pen against the table once. Twice. “Fourteenth century, probably.” I laughed. It happened before I could stop myself. Rachel did not. “Sorry,” I said. “I understand.” “No, you don't. You just told a police detective that her witness talks like she stepped out of the Middle Ages.” “I told you her speech is consistent with fourteenth-century northern French.” “That sentence is somehow worse.” “I can make it more precise if you'd like.” “I would not.” She leaned toward the laptop. “This phrase.” She played it. “What does it mean?” “She is talking about bells.” “Church bells?” “Possibly funeral bells. She says they did not stop.” She played another portion. “This refers to her sister.” “I thought I heard that.” “You did.” “What does she say?” Rachel listened again before answering. “Her sister became ill and died.” “What illness?” “She uses a word that could mean pestilence, corruption, epidemic sickness.” I folded my arms. “People still use old-fashioned language.” “Yes.” Rachel played another section. “She mentions Saint Martin's day.” “Still celebrated.” “Yes.” “And?” “She refers to the local priest using a name form I would expect in northern France around the late 1340s.” “That is remarkably convenient.” “I agree.” “You think she's faking it?” “I think faking this convincingly would require considerable expertise.” “You have expertise.” “Yes.” “Could you fake it?” Rachel considered. “Not perfectly.” I stared at her. “That is not comforting.” “No.” “Could another specialist?” “Possibly, with preparation.” “Why would a trafficking victim do that?” “I have no idea.” “So we're back where we started.” “No.” She closed the laptop halfway. “We are considerably farther from where we started. We simply don't like where we arrived.” I stood. “Come meet her.” Rachel looked surprised. “You're comfortable with that?” “No.” “Excellent.” “But she needs somebody who can understand her.” Rachel gathered her things. At the door she stopped. “Jenny.” “Yes?” “If she really speaks what I think she speaks, I won't sound right to her.” “You just told me you're the expert.” “I know the grammar. I know reconstructed pronunciation. That does not mean I can walk into a room sounding like her neighbor.” “Can you make yourself understood?” “I think so.” “Then that's more than anyone else has managed.” Ysabeau sat near the window of a protected interview room wearing loose trousers, a sweater and soft slippers we had given her because she refused every pair of modern shoes offered. When Rachel entered, Ysabeau immediately looked at me. I sat beside the door. “She's safe.” The words meant nothing to Ysabeau, but perhaps my tone did. Rachel sat across from her. For several seconds, she said nothing. Then she spoke. The sentence sounded French and not French. Ysabeau froze. Rachel tried again, slowly. Ysabeau's mouth opened. She replied with a sudden rush of words. Rachel blinked. Answered. Ysabeau leaned forward. Then she began crying. Rachel's eyes filled too. I had not expected that. Neither had she. They spoke for almost an hour. Sometimes Rachel had to stop, think, try another word. Sometimes Ysabeau laughed at Rachel's pronunciation. Actually laughed. At one point Rachel glanced toward me with a look of offended dignity after Ysabeau corrected her for the third time. I mouthed, “Expert.” Rachel narrowed her eyes. That made Ysabeau laugh harder. Eventually Rachel turned toward me. “She wants to know if you're married.” I blinked. “What?” “She has apparently decided that's important.” “Why?” Rachel asked. Ysabeau answered while looking directly at me. Rachel's face changed. “What?” “She asked where your husband is.” “I don't have one.” Rachel translated. Ysabeau looked confused. She asked another question. Rachel hesitated. “Oh, this should be good.” “She wants to know who has authority over you.” “My lieutenant, unfortunately.” Rachel stared at me. “I am not translating that.” “Coward.” Ysabeau was watching us closely. I pointed to myself. “Nobody.” Rachel translated more accurately. Ysabeau stared. Then asked another question. “What now?” “She wants to know whether women can live without husbands where we come from.” I looked at Rachel. “Tell her yes.” Rachel did. Ysabeau's expression changed in a way I could not immediately name. Wonder, perhaps. Or disbelief. Then she whispered something. Rachel looked down. “What did she say?” “She said, ‘Then perhaps this is not hell.’” That stayed with me. For a very long time. The interview did not give us time travel. Not yet. It gave us a village. Saint-Léon-sur-Veule. A mill. A church dedicated to Saint Rémi. A neighboring village called Mareuil. A priest named Étienne. A sister called Margot. And a story about sickness. Rachel spent the next two days checking details. On the third evening she appeared at my desk holding a printed map. “You need to see this.” “I was hoping for dinner.” “You can eat while being disturbed.” “That should be the department motto.” She placed the map in front of me. Saint-Léon-sur-Veule. Tiny. Barely more than a notation. “Real?” “Real.” “When?” “Documented in several ecclesiastical and tax records through the 1340s.” “And after?” “That is where things become interesting.” I looked up. “Interesting good or interesting terrible?” “You know me well enough already.” “Terrible.” “By 1350, it virtually disappears from the record.” “Why?” “There are no surviving statements saying, ‘The village died of plague,’ if that's what you're asking.” “But?” “The timing fits. The region was devastated.” I looked back at the map. “Ysabeau says men came before people started dying?” “After sickness had reached nearby settlements but before her own village collapsed.” “And promised to take women somewhere safe.” “Yes.” “How many?” “She remembers twenty-seven being gathered from several places, perhaps more.” “Only women?” “Mostly.” “Ages?” “Young enough to work. Old enough not to require constant care.” I did not like the phrasing. Neither did Rachel. “She described an examination,” Rachel continued. “What kind?” “Teeth. Hair. Skin. Injuries. Breasts. Hips.” My jaw tightened. “Sexual?” “Not exactly. More like inspection.” “Livestock.” Rachel looked at me. “I wasn't going to use the word.” “I will.” “She says some women were rejected.” “Why?” “Scarring. Illness. Missing teeth. Pregnancy in at least one case.” “And then?” “They were taken to a manor.” “Where?” “She doesn't know.” “What happened there?” “They were washed repeatedly. Given food. Hair cut. Lice treated. Wounds cleaned.” “Prepared.” “Yes.” “For sale.” “Probably.” I leaned back. “Still explainable without time travel.” Rachel said nothing. I noticed. “What?” “There was something at the manor.” “What?” “Light.” “Candles.” “No.” “Oil lamps.” “No.” “What then?” “She described small white suns behind glass that could be made bright or dark by touching the wall.” I looked at her. Rachel held my gaze. “No.” “I know.” “Electricity.” “That is what it sounds like.” “In 1349.” “Yes.” I rubbed both hands over my face. “You understand how ridiculous this sounds.” “Completely.” “And yet you look disturbingly calm.” “I have spent three days discovering that a woman with no apparent modern education knows the exact location of a village that disappeared six hundred and seventy years ago, speaks a dialect she should not know and correctly describes regional plague conditions without understanding what bacteria are. Calm is all I have left.” I looked at her. “You haven't slept.” “Neither have you.” “I asked first.” “You didn't ask.” “That was implied.” She sat across from me. For the first time since meeting her, she looked tired enough to lose some of the polished academic control. “Jenny.” “Yes?” “If this is real, the question isn't whether somebody has brought one woman forward.” I knew what she meant before she finished. “How many.” Rachel nodded. “And for how long.” That was the beginning of the weeks when Rachel stopped being somebody I called when I needed translation and became somebody who was simply there. At first she worked from the station. Then she stayed late. Then later. Then very late. She developed a habit of leaving books on my desk. I developed a habit of moving them to the corner and pretending they weren't taking over. One night, shortly after midnight, she placed a paper bag beside my keyboard. “What is that?” “Food.” “I recognize the category.” “Then why ask?” “Because you brought it.” “You haven't eaten.” “I had chips.” “When?” “Earlier.” “How much earlier?” I thought. “Lunch.” “That was nine hours ago.” “You've become very controlling.” “You're welcome.” Inside the bag was a sandwich and fries. “What did you get?” “Soup.” “That is depressing.” “I like soup.” “Nobody likes soup enough to order it after midnight.” “I do.” “You're suspicious.” “You investigate trafficking rings for a living and soup is where you draw the line?” I smiled. She sat beside my desk. For several minutes we ate without discussing the case. It felt strangely intimate. Then Rachel pointed toward a photograph pinned to the board. “Who is she?” “Unknown. First appeared at a club six months ago.” “Does Ysabeau recognize her?” “No.” “Same organization?” “Probably.” “You say probably often.” “I dislike saying definitely.” “So do historians.” “Maybe we're compatible.” The word came out before I had decided to say it. Rachel looked at me. I suddenly found my sandwich extremely interesting. After a moment she said, “Professionally?” “Obviously.” “Obviously.” She took another spoonful of soup. I glanced at her. She was smiling. That became a pattern too. Little moments. Nothing dramatic. Rachel correcting my pronunciation of Ysabeau's village and me deliberately mispronouncing it afterward because it annoyed her. Me learning that she took coffee black in the morning, with milk late at night and with sugar only when exhausted. Her learning that I hated people touching files on my desk but didn't mind when she did. One evening she fell asleep in the conference room with her cheek against a seventeenth-century transcription. I found her twenty minutes later. I stood there longer than necessary. Not because she looked beautiful, though she did. Because she looked unguarded. Rachel was almost never unguarded. I touched her shoulder. “Hey.” She woke abruptly. “What?” “You fell asleep.” “I was reading.” “You were drooling on medieval France.” She looked down in horror. “I was not.” “You were.” “Absolutely not.” “I have photographic evidence.” Her eyes narrowed. “You don't.” “No.” “Good.” “I considered it.” “You're cruel.” “Go home.” She gathered her books. “You too.” “I will.” “When?” “Soon.” “Define soon.” “Before morning.” “Jenny.” “Rachel.” She stared. Then said, “Fine. I'm staying.” “What?” “If you aren't leaving, I'm not leaving.” “That's ridiculous.” “Yes.” “You have work tomorrow.” “This is my work.” “You also teach.” “I cancelled.” “For this?” “For nine hundred women appearing out of nowhere? Yes.” “You don't know there are nine hundred.” “No.” She looked toward the evidence board. “I think there are more.” Neither of us joked after that. The second raid changed the investigation from impossible theory into something nobody could dismiss. The building was registered as a private rehabilitation clinic. There were no patients. There were, however, six examination rooms, four showers, racks of inexpensive modern clothing sorted by size, boxes of shoes, cosmetics, razors, hair dye, vaccinations, antibiotics, antifungal medication, dental kits and laminated instruction sheets showing how to flush a toilet, operate a sink, use cutlery, enter an elevator, fasten a seat belt and hold a mobile phone. Rachel stood in the middle of the largest room holding one of the instruction sheets. “This is orientation.” “Yes.” “For people unfamiliar with the modern world.” “Yes.” She looked at me. Neither of us said the other possibility anymore. We did not need to. Alvarez called from an adjoining office. “You two need to see this.” A filing cabinet contained individual folders. Photograph. Estimated age. Height. Weight. Health. Scars. Teeth. Hair. Fertility notes. And codes. FR-1348-09. EN-1349-03. IT-1348-12. FL-1350-01. Rachel crouched beside the open drawer. “France.” “I guessed.” “England. Italy. Flanders.” “And the numbers?” “Dates.” I picked up another. A woman's photograph. Black hair. Estimated age twenty-six. Healthy. No visible disease. Good dentition. Minor scarring left thigh. Placement category: domestic/private. I closed the file. “Domestic/private means what I think it means?” “Yes.” Another folder. Estimated age twenty-one. Placement category: commercial/high volume. I put that one down harder. Rachel touched my forearm. “Jenny.” “I know.” “No, you don't.” I looked at her. Her eyes were wet. “I translate what these women say,” she whispered. “I hear them describe being promised rescue from death, and then I find this.” For a moment, the professional distance disappeared. I covered her hand with mine. “I know.” This time I meant it. The ledger was discovered thirty minutes later. Nine hundred and seventeen entries. Not names. Numbers. Acquisition dates. Origins. Processing status. Transfer destinations. Sale categories. Moreno arrived while I was reading the first twenty pages. He looked at my face. “How bad?” I handed him the ledger. He read the total. Then again. “Nine hundred seventeen?” “One facility.” He looked toward Rachel. “How many origin codes?” “At least eight.” “Eight countries?” “Regions and periods.” “Periods.” “Yes.” He sat slowly. “Say the part nobody wants to say.” Rachel looked at me. I said it. “They're taking women out of the past.” Moreno stared at the ledger. “How?” “We don't know.” “For how long?” “We don't know.” “How many sites?” “We don't know.” He closed his eyes. “I am beginning to hate that sentence.” “So am I.” Rachel came home with me that night because neither of us wanted to be alone and neither of us said that aloud. We spread maps across my dining table and opened a bottle of wine neither of us really drank. Around one in the morning, she stood at the kitchen counter rubbing the back of her neck. “You're tense.” “Brilliant detective work.” “I have advanced training.” “Apparently.” I came up behind her. “May I?” She looked over her shoulder. “What?” “Your shoulders.” Rachel hesitated for just long enough to make me aware of what I had offered. Then nodded. I placed both hands lightly against the muscles at the base of her neck. She exhaled. “That bad?” “Worse.” “You carry stress like luggage.” “Historians prefer archives.” I smiled. My thumbs moved slowly. She relaxed beneath my hands. Too much. Or perhaps exactly enough. After a minute she turned. We were very close. Neither of us moved. Rachel's voice was quiet. “You should probably stop.” “Probably.” My hands were still resting near her shoulders. She looked at my mouth. I noticed. She noticed me noticing. “Jenny.” “Yes?” “This is not professionally sensible.” “No.” “We are working together.” “Yes.” “You are emotionally compromised by the case.” “So are you.” “Yes.” Neither of us stepped back. I asked, “Are you telling me not to?” Rachel looked at me for a long moment. “No.” That was our first kiss. Not in a parking garage. Not during an argument. In my kitchen, surrounded by medieval maps and half-empty wine glasses, after weeks of pretending that the thing growing between us was merely exhaustion and proximity. She kissed carefully at first. Almost experimentally. Then I touched her cheek and she leaned into me. When we finally separated, she rested her forehead against mine. “Well,” she murmured. “Well.” “That complicates things.” “Considerably.” “I should go.” “Do you want to?” “No.” “Then don't.” She smiled. “Detective Mercer.” “Dr. Adler.” “You are very bad at boundaries.” “You came to my apartment at midnight.” “You invited me.” “And you're still here.” She kissed me again. We did not solve time travel that night. For once, neither of us tried. What followed was not a sudden romance so much as the gradual abandonment of pretending we were not already in one. Rachel began keeping a change of clothes at my apartment because it was closer to the station. Then toiletries. Then books. Many books. One Saturday morning I found her reorganizing one of my shelves. “What are you doing?” “Saving these.” “From what?” “You.” “They were fine.” “They were horizontal.” “Books survive horizontally.” “Barely.” “You're very judgmental for someone who moved in accidentally.” She looked at me. “I have not moved in.” “There are fourteen books here.” “Eleven.” “Three are on the table.” “That is temporary.” “So is your toothbrush?” She smiled. “Possibly.” Ysabeau noticed the change immediately. During one interview, she said something to Rachel, then looked at me with obvious amusement. I sighed. “What?” Rachel shook her head. “What did she say?” “Nothing relevant.” “Rachel.” “She asked whether we share a bed.” I stared at Ysabeau. Ysabeau laughed. “You told her?” “I told her the question was inappropriate.” “What did she say?” Rachel muttered something. “What?” “She said that means yes.” I laughed so hard Ysabeau joined in without knowing why. For a few seconds, the interview room contained no victims, detectives or medieval mysteries. Only three women laughing. I remember that more clearly than many of the terrible things that came later. The breakthrough came from another rescued woman named Margot, who had spent nearly two months in one of the medieval holding estates before transport. She remembered the machine. Not as a machine. As a doorway. She drew it for us. Stone cellar. Metal frame. White light. People disappearing. Men wearing strange clothing. Crates appearing where nothing had stood before. Rachel watched her draw. When Margot finished, Rachel asked several questions. Margot became animated. She drew a second room. Then a wagon route. Then symbols. When she left, Rachel sat staring at the drawings. “The operation is in the past.” “We knew that.” “No, we suspected transport occurred there. This is infrastructure.” “Meaning?” “They aren't periodically going back to find women.” She pointed to the wagon route. “They have permanent collection networks.” I understood. “Local agents.” “Yes.” “Houses.” “Yes.” “Staging sites.” “Yes.” “Which means…” Rachel finished for me. “They have turned entire historical disasters into supply chains.” The phrase made me physically ill. Every plague village. Every war zone. Every famine. Every destroyed town. Women who were expected to die anyway. Women whose absence would never look unusual because death had already erased the paperwork. “Unlimited inventory,” I said. Rachel flinched at the word. “I know.” “That's how they see them.” “Yes.” I looked at the wall of photographs. “How do we stop something happening six hundred years ago?” Rachel was quiet. Then she said, “We find the door.” We found it in a warehouse. Or rather, federal engineers found it after following financial records from the people who owned the warehouse. By then, our investigation had become something enormous and secret enough that unfamiliar people with security clearances had begun filling conference rooms and speaking in careful phrases like temporal displacement event because apparently nobody in government wished to say time machine aloud. The equipment itself was disappointingly industrial. Metal frame. Power units. Control consoles. Nothing glowing. Nothing magical. The coordinates stored in the system were both geographic and temporal. Northern France. October 17, 1348. Rachel stood beside me while technicians prepared a controlled activation. “You're holding my hand,” she said. I looked down. I was. “Sorry.” “I didn't say stop.” So I didn't. The machine activated. The empty frame shimmered. For an instant, it looked like heat over pavement. Then the space inside changed. Stone wall. Torchlight. A wooden crate. We were looking into another room. Not a video. A room. Wind moved a hanging cloth. Someone walked past in the distance. Rachel's grip tightened. “My God.” One technician whispered, “Stable.” Moreno was standing several feet behind us. “No.” I turned. “I haven't said anything.” “You don't need to.” Rachel almost laughed. Moreno pointed at both of us. “Neither of you is going through that.” Rachel said, “I am.” “No.” “She is,” I said. Moreno looked betrayed. “You were supposed to be the sensible one.” “Since when?” Rachel looked at me. “You agree?” “No.” “Then why—” “Because if I say no, you're going anyway.” She smiled. “I know you very well.” “That is becoming a problem.” Moreno rubbed his face. “Absolutely not. We have tactical teams.” I pointed toward Rachel. “How many tactical officers speak fourteenth-century northern French?” Moreno looked at her. Rachel said, “Approximately none.” “And local customs?” “None.” “Can they tell a terrified medieval woman that we're not demons?” Rachel considered. “Possibly with gestures.” Moreno glared at both of us. “I dislike you as a couple.” “We aren't asking for approval.” “I know. That makes it worse.” Crossing did not feel like anything. That was almost disappointing. One step on concrete. One step on stone. Then the air changed. Colder. Damp. Heavy with smoke. The room on the other side was underground, built of rough stone and timber, but stacked along one wall were modern plastic medical crates and portable LED lamps. Two centuries occupying the same space. Rachel stood beside me dressed in deliberately plain period-appropriate clothing beneath a modern protective layer we could remove once outside the facility, her hair hidden under a simple covering, and although we had rehearsed everything repeatedly, I saw the fear in her eyes. “You okay?” “No.” “Good.” She looked at me. “Good?” “I'd worry if you were.” “That is strangely comforting.” We heard voices above us. Rachel raised one hand. Everyone froze. Three men speaking. One voice had a modern accent. Two did not. Rachel listened. “What?” She whispered, “They're discussing tomorrow's collection.” “How many?” “Forty women.” “From?” “A village east of here.” I looked at the tactical leader. He nodded. We moved. The manor was larger than Margot's drawings suggested. Modern staff occupied the central building. Local men handled transport and guarding. Some understood exactly what they were helping do. Others seemed convinced they worked for foreign physicians protecting chosen women from plague. The holding stable contained more than one hundred women. The moment Rachel entered and spoke, the room erupted. Questions flew from every direction. Rachel answered one. Then another. Then three at once. I stood beside her watching faces change as women realized she understood them. One older woman grabbed Rachel's hands. Rachel listened. “What is she asking?” “Whether her daughters can come.” “All of them.” Rachel translated. The woman began crying. Another asked something. “What?” “She wants to know if the sickness exists where we come from.” “Tell her no.” Rachel did. The woman crossed herself. Then a younger woman, perhaps twenty-five, stepped forward. Her question was longer. Rachel listened carefully. When she finished, Rachel looked at me. “What?” “She wants to know whether women belong to husbands in our world.” I thought of Ysabeau. “Tell her women can belong to themselves.” Rachel translated. The reaction was not what I expected. Silence. Several women exchanged looks. Then one began to laugh. Not because it was funny. Because it was unimaginable. Another woman asked something. Rachel smiled sadly. “What now?” “She asked whether I belong to you.” I blinked. “Well?” Rachel glanced at me. “I told her no.” “Accurate.” “She then asked whether I stay because I want to.” I looked at her. “And?” “I said yes.” The woman nodded as if that answer made more sense than anything else we had told her. The first part of the operation went almost perfectly. Modern personnel were detained. Local accomplices were disarmed. Women were moved toward the portal. Then technicians uncovered evidence of other temporal sites. England. Italy. Flanders. German territories. Multiple years. Multiple disasters. The scale was larger than anything we had imagined. And the network on our side realized the site had been compromised. “They can shut the portal remotely,” the engineer told me. “How long?” “Could be hours.” “Could be?” “Could be less.” “How many women here?” “One hundred fourteen registered captives. But villagers are arriving.” “What villagers?” He pointed outside. Word had spread. That was the problem nobody had considered. People in the nearby villages knew something unusual was happening at the manor. They knew women had been taken there. They knew the strangers claimed to offer escape from pestilence. And now they saw women entering a room and disappearing. By sunset, families were gathered outside. Mothers. Children. Men carrying sick relatives. Old women leaning on sticks. Some begging. Some praying. One man fell to his knees in front of Rachel. She tried to lift him. He refused. “What does he want?” “He has three daughters.” “Where?” “Village south of here.” “Can we get them?” Rachel looked at me. And there it was. The impossible line. Who gets saved? The traffickers had solved that question easily. Young. Healthy. Female. Profitable. We could not. There was no moral formula for deciding who deserved to escape history. Rachel found me sitting on a low stone wall after dark. She sat beside me. For a while, neither of us spoke. Finally I said, “We're doing what they did.” “No.” “We're selecting.” “We are not selecting victims for sale.” “We're deciding who crosses.” “Because there isn't enough time.” “That doesn't make the decision less real.” “No.” I looked across the courtyard. A mother was holding a sleeping child. “They're going to die.” “Some will.” “We know that.” “Yes.” “And we leave them.” Rachel turned toward me. “Jenny, if we open this to everyone, thousands will come. Then tens of thousands. The portal cannot handle that. Our world cannot absorb an uncontrolled evacuation from history, and even if it could, where would we stop? This village? This region? Everyone threatened by plague? Everyone threatened by war?” “I know.” “Do you?” “Yes.” “I don't think you do.” I looked at her sharply. She didn't back away. “You want there to be one correct answer,” she said quietly, “because you're a detective and detectives survive terrible things by believing that eventually there is a correct action, a person to arrest, a victim to protect, a line between what should happen and what should not.” “And you don't?” “I'm a historian.” She looked toward the distant village. “I spend my life knowing what happened and being unable to change any of it.” That silenced me. Rachel took my hand. “We save the women these people stole because we are already responsible for them. We save whoever we can without turning this into another form of selection. And then we close the system.” “And everyone else?” Her thumb moved across my fingers. “I don't know.” I hated the answer. I loved her for not inventing a better one. The attack began shortly before dawn. Men who had escaped during the first seizure returned with reinforcements, some carrying modern weapons, others swords and crossbows, and the first gunshot produced absolute chaos among people who had never heard one. Horses bolted. Women screamed. A guard dropped his sword and ran. We began pushing everyone toward the portal. Rachel stayed near the entrance, speaking continuously, directing women, telling them not to stop, telling them not to look back. I lost sight of her for perhaps twenty seconds. It felt like an hour. “Rachel!” No answer. I saw her near the stable, kneeling beside a wounded woman. I ran. “You're hit?” “No.” “Whose blood?” “Hers.” The woman was conscious but barely. Rachel spoke to her. The woman answered. “What?” “Her name is Aveline. She cannot feel her leg.” I crouched. “Then we carry her.” Behind us, the engineer shouted. “Portal stability dropping!” “How long?” “Two minutes!” Rachel's eyes met mine. We lifted Aveline. The courtyard had become smoke, shouting and terrified movement. We reached the portal. Women crossed in groups. Aveline went through. Rachel stayed. “What are you doing?” “You know what I'm doing.” “No.” “Jenny.” “Go through.” “Not without you.” “There are more in the far stable.” “How many?” “Twenty-one!” I grabbed her shoulders. “Rachel, go.” “No.” “You need to be on the other side translating.” “So do you.” “I don't translate anything.” “That was not my point.” “Rachel.” Her eyes filled. “Don't.” “Don't what?” “Say something heroic and stupid.” “I wasn't going to.” “Yes, you were.” “I was going to say I love you.” “That is worse.” Despite everything, I laughed. She kissed me once, hard. “Come back.” “I will.” “That is not enough.” “I promise.” “Jenny.” “I promise.” I ran. The women in the far stable were panicked by smoke and gunfire. I shouted the few medieval words Rachel had taught me. Come. Now. Run. They understood enough. We moved together. One woman fell. I pulled her up. Another refused to leave without a wooden chest. I shouted at her. She shouted back. Neither of us understood the other. She hugged the chest to her body. “Fine. Bring it.” That she understood from tone. We reached the courtyard. The portal flickered. Rachel stood on the modern side with one hand extended. The women crossed. One. Four. Nine. Fourteen. Seventeen. Twenty. Twenty-one. I turned. More people were running toward us. Not captives. Villagers. A young woman reached me carrying a little girl. She was perhaps twenty-six. She pushed the child toward me. “No.” She shouted something. I didn't understand. She pushed harder. A boy appeared behind her, perhaps seven. She grabbed him too. Then kissed both children. I understood. “No. You come too.” She shook her head. I grabbed her wrist. She pointed back toward the village. Someone else. I didn't know who. Another child. A husband. Her mother. Someone she would not abandon. “Twenty seconds!” Rachel was shouting my name. The mother pushed both children against me. I took them. She stepped backward. “Come!” She shook her head. “Ten seconds!” I ran toward the portal with the children. At the edge, I looked back. The woman stood in the courtyard. Watching. Not crying. Just watching her children leave. Rachel reached through. I passed her the girl. Then the boy. The portal began collapsing. I turned back once more. The mother raised one hand. Then the world became white. I woke on concrete. My shoulder hurt so badly I thought somebody had cut it off. Rachel was yelling. Not at me. At a paramedic. “She is conscious.” “I can hear you,” I muttered. Rachel dropped to her knees. “You idiot.” “Hello.” “You absolute, unbelievable—” “That's repetitive.” She kissed me. Then pulled back. “Do not joke.” “I'm alive.” “You nearly weren't.” “I promised.” “That does not make it better.” Behind her, the two children sat wrapped in silver emergency blankets. The little girl had one arm around her brother. Their mother was still in 1348. I stared at them. Everything inside me collapsed. Rachel saw it before I said anything. She sat beside me carefully and pulled me against her. “I left her.” “No.” “I left her.” “She chose.” “That doesn't make it easier.” “No.” I cried then. Not quietly. Not professionally. I cried for a woman whose name I never learned, for the thousands we found too late, for the ones we saved, for the ones still buried anonymously inside history, and Rachel held me without once telling me that everything would be all right. Because it wasn't. Some things would never be all right. The official explanation involved a multinational trafficking network, forged identities, isolated communities and elaborate coercion. The truth remained classified. The rescued women became legal problems first, humanitarian problems second and eventually, after enough people stopped discussing them as a group, individual women again. Ysabeau learned modern French before English. She loved hot showers. Hated elevators. Loved chocolate ice cream. Hated sliced bread. She eventually informed Rachel that modern women had improved many things but ruined soup. Rachel took that personally. The two children from the courtyard were named Luc and Marion. We never discovered their mother's name. I tried. So did Rachel. No record was complete enough. Perhaps she died that winter. Perhaps she survived. Perhaps history simply swallowed her. Rachel officially moved into my apartment seven months after the operation, although by then the announcement was ridiculous because most of her clothing was already there and my living room had surrendered almost completely to her books. One rainy evening, nearly a year after we found Ysabeau behind the shower curtain, I came home and found Rachel sitting cross-legged on the floor with old documents spread around her. “You're doing it again.” She looked up. “What?” “Invading the apartment with dead people.” “They were alive when these were written.” “That is not the reassuring argument you think it is.” She held out a page. “I found something.” My coat was still on. “What kind of something?” “A copied parish account.” “How old?” “The copy is seventeenth century. The source it references appears to be much older.” I sat beside her. “What does it say?” Rachel hesitated. That was enough to make me nervous. “Read it.” She traced one line. “It describes a manor associated with disappearances during the pestilence.” I stared at her. “Our manor?” “Possibly.” “What else?” “Villagers apparently believed women were being taken by demons or foreign sorcerers.” “Accurate enough.” “There is more.” “Of course there is.” She smiled. “After the manor was attacked, a story circulated about a woman wearing strange clothing who appeared during the fighting and led captives from the building.” I laughed softly. “No.” “Yes.” “What did they call her?” Rachel looked at me. “The woman from tomorrow.” For several seconds, I said nothing. History had remembered. Badly. Indirectly. Through superstition and copying and centuries of people altering details. But remembered. I leaned against the sofa. “How many did we save?” Rachel knew immediately that I did not mean the official number. “I don't know.” “How many of those women would have survived the plague anyway?” “I don't know.” “How many died because we closed the portal?” “I don't know.” “How many would have been trafficked if we hadn't?” “I don't know.” I sighed. “You really are terrible at comforting people.” “I've told you that.” I looked at her. “Did we do the right thing?” Rachel put the document down. She took my hand. “I don't think there was a right thing.” “That still bothers me.” “I know.” “I want there to have been one.” “I know that too.” She leaned against me. “We stopped people from turning women into merchandise. We gave choices back to people who had been denied them. We saved everyone we reasonably could.” “Not everyone.” “No.” “And the others?” Rachel was quiet for a long time. Then she said, “History is full of people nobody could save.” I looked at the photographs on the shelf. Ysabeau at a picnic, laughing so hard her eyes were closed. Luc and Marion on their first day of school. Rachel beside me at a resettlement fundraiser, her hand resting on my waist. Lives that should not have existed in our century. Lives that did. Outside our windows, cars passed beneath electric streetlights. Elevators moved quietly through buildings. Phones rang. Televisions flickered. Water came from faucets. All the ordinary miracles that had terrified Ysabeau when we first found her. For nearly a year, I had believed the mystery began because nobody was missing. I understood now how wrong I had been. Thousands of women had been missing. They were simply missing from a century that had no detectives, no databases, no photographs, no telephones, no mothers able to call another city and demand that somebody keep searching. Women had disappeared into plague records, burned villages, ruined parishes and unnamed graves, and history had accepted their absence because history had already expected them to die. Rachel rested her head against my shoulder. I kissed her hair. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “That I spent months asking where all those women came from.” “And?” “That was never the important question.” “What was?” I looked at Ysabeau's photograph. “Why nobody had ever looked for them.” Rachel squeezed my hand. And somewhere between the women history had forgotten and the women sitting alive beneath electric lights nearly seven centuries later, I finally understood why the case had bothered me before I knew there was a case at all. The women had always been missing. Someone had simply, finally, noticed.