At one thirty AM, police arrived at MacKay’s bar. Two sirens blared, piercing the hot air, and I ran to the window, latching onto the chipped wooden frame. Two empty patrol cars had parked out front, blocking the road. The driver’s side door stood open on one car.
A cop exited the bar. He led its patrons down the sidewalk. They pressed into a mob, hugging the barriers at the edge of the building.
“It’s Art,” one man said. “Those cops went upstairs, to the apartment.”
“But we haven’t seen Ally all night.” Continue reading “The Hunt by Natalie Schriefer”