“Come home with me tonight,’ Daya says. We're both tired and stone-cold sober after talking to the police for two hours. They searched the house, and he was nowhere to be found. They did take prints from the whiskey glass to see if they could get a match. I’m exhausted, so I nod my head. Her house is twenty minutes away, and it’s a good thing I tailed her the entire time, or else I might have lost focus and drove without direction. Daya lives in a quaint house in a nice, quiet neighborhood. She parks the car and we both slump our way into the house. Her house would be fairly empty if it weren’t for the furniture and the thousands of computers everywhere. She takes her work seriously, and while she doesn’t talk much about her job, I know she deals with some pretty heavy matters. She's mentioned before that she deals with the dark web and human trafficking. And that alone is enough to give someone night terrors. Apparently, her boss is strict with keeping the details confidential, but there's been times where Daya has looked more haunted than Parsons Manor. When I had asked what she gets out of it, she had said saving innocent lives. That was all I needed to hear to know that Daya is a hero. “You know where the guest bedroom is,” Daya says, lazily pointing her finger in the direction. “Do you want some company? I’m sure you’re really freaked out.”