“What did the message say?” I ask.

  “It said that she was stuck, they wouldn’t let her back into the building, and that I needed to come get her.”

  “‘They’?” I ask. “Who is she talking about?”

  “I don’t know. That was the only message, and it didn’t give any other details,” she says.

  “When was that message sent?” I ask.

  “About half an hour after she went out to the concession stand. Maybe a little more,” she says.

  “All right. Do you know if Percy tried to call her?”

  “She said she didn’t because she knew that she was missing and just called me because she figured that she actually meant to send the message to me since I was there with her,” Samantha says.

  “Thank you for letting me know.”

  I hang up, realizing that getting to the venue tomorrow is even more important now.

  Going to the concert venue feels like truly starting from the beginning. While I have an idea of what was going on in Brianna’s life and what she was going through before her apparent disappearance, and some insight into her state of mind, this place is really where the events of Friday night unfolded. I called the venue in advance to make sure that somebody would be around to talk to me and was assured that the manager would be waiting for me.

  There’s only a small parking lot near the venue. Nearby parking decks and lots controlled by nearby businesses provide spaces for the overflow event attendees. Only a few scattered cars, likely belonging to people working at the venue, are in the lot. It is weird going through a place like this that is usually bustling with activity and life but is now so quiet and empty. Even though it’s in the midst of a college town, the area surrounding the venue is largely still.

  I park and take a second to look around me. Samantha said that after they left the concert, they went out to the car and waited for Brianna. That means they were parked here in this lot, somewhere close enough that they could monitor the building so they could see Brianna if she wandered around. There are multiple doors on the front of the building, but I’ve been to enough venues like this to know there are likely several other entrances and exits on the other sides. It’s far more difficult to guess exactly through which one Brianna left the building.

  From there, figuring out what happened to her only gets more complicated. The venue is in a bustling downtown area. If she started walking, she could have gone in several different directions toward a variety of destinations. I try not to let myself be particularly concerned about the train station I noticed not far from here. It would have been a bit of a walk, but a teenage girl as distracted and emotionally distraught as Brianna was could easily have made her way there and impulsively bought a ticket. If she was carrying cash with her, there wouldn’t even be a record of the transaction.

  That makes me think however. I know Brianna doesn’t have a job. So it’s possible she doesn’t even have her own bank account or debit card. I highly doubt her father would permit her to have something like a credit card. That means any money would have to come from her parents and likely be in cash form. This not only furthers the possibility of her buying some sort of transportation ticket that can’t be traced, but it also eliminates financial transaction records that could create a timeline and virtual paper trail of her movements. This seems very likely to me, considering neither of her parents mentioned checking a bank account or any kind of transaction records.

  I walk toward the building and randomly choose a door to try to open. It’s locked, so I move on to the next. It takes a few doors before I finally get inside. As I’m trying to decide which direction to go in the large concourse, a man appears from around a corner and walks toward me. He’s wearing a neatly tailored suit and shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. I’m expecting him to flash me a big businessman smile as he approaches, but his expression remains solemn and serious.

  “Agent Griffin?” he asks when he’s within several feet of me.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Andy Worsham,” he says.

  “Hello,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand. “Thank you for meeting me here.”

  “Absolutely. What can I help you with?”

  “I’m sure by now you’re aware that a teenage girl went missing from the concert held here Friday night,” I say.

  He nods, his lips pressed together. “Yes, I did hear that. It’s awful. I’ve been praying she would be found safely.”

  “A lot of people are. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to locate her. I know that she was here that night. I’ve seen pictures and videos of her at the concert. I’ve also spoken with one of the girls she was with that night, and she told me at which point she walked out of the show and went to the concession stands. She took a picture while she was in line to get food and never returned to her seat. I would like to look around to orient myself to where she was and the path she likely took while inside the venue that night. I’d also like to see any security footage you have,” I say.

  “I’m happy to show you around. If you have an idea of where she was sitting, I can bring you to the seats. If you have access to the picture of the concession stand, I can also show you which one she was at, too. As for security footage, there is a lot of it. We have cameras all around the venue. Anytime that many people are in one space and alcohol is being consumed, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much potential there is for disaster. Having cameras throughout the interior, as well as covering the entrances and exits, is a security measure.”

  I stop myself from pointing out that it didn’t exactly create any security for Brianna. At least I hope that there will be footage that shows her moving through the venue and possibly leaving. Even if I can just see which direction she was going when she walked out and approximately what time, I can better piece together what might have happened next. Like I have frequently told witnesses, sometimes it is the smallest shred of information that leads to the next piece.

  “Give me just a second,” I say.

  I shoot off a quick text to Samantha asking for a copy of the picture of Brianna standing at the concession stand. I also ask for her seat numbers and the time she got the picture from Brianna. She responds within just a few moments, sending me everything I need.

  “She was sitting in A113,” I tell him. I turn the screen toward him so he can see the picture. “And this is the concession stand where she was waiting in line.”

  He looks at the picture for a few seconds. “All right, no problem. Follow me.”

  He moves with the long strides and determined purpose of someone accustomed to being busy most of his life. It matches my energy, and we move along the open concourse quickly, our footsteps reverberating off the polished floor and concrete walls.

  “Were all the doors open the night of the concert?” I ask.

  “No, we keep most of the doors secured during entry to control the crowds. There are different admission packages and tiers of entry, so we assign different doors for each of those. Generally, there is a locked door in between to provide room for the queues outside. For the concert on Friday, the middle five doors at the front of the building where you just came in were being used. The first, third, and fifth were open, and the second and fourth were blocked off.”

  “And there was security at each one?”

  “Of course.”

  We get to a door leading into the main arena, and he leads me down the concrete steps to a section two levels up from the floor.

  “This is section A,” Andy says. He walks into a row of seats and points at one. “And this is seat 113.”

  I step into the row of seats and stand near where Brianna was sitting the night of the show. It’s an impressive view, and I’m sure the tickets were not cheap. I understand even more now why Samantha would be frustrated at Brianna for just leaving and perhaps why she was not too motivated to check in on her or chase her down. It’s an understandable reaction for anybody, but especially for someone as young as the girls are.

  Stepping back out of the row of seats, I let Andy pass in front of me, and he leads me back up the concrete steps and to the concession stand. I pay attention to the time it takes me to climb the steps and walk to where Brianna went to purchase her snacks, taking into consideration that it would be crowded so she likely wouldn’t be moving as quickly as we are doing. With those considerations in mind, and assuming she was standing in line for at least a short time before taking the picture to send to Samantha, the timeline makes sense so far.

  I remember what Samantha said about her first impressions of Brianna being gone longer than she expected. The picture of Brianna standing in the line at the concession stand was an indication to her that Brianna wasn’t as upset as she originally thought. Brianna was still joking around and being silly. But less than half an hour later, Brianna made a cryptic social media post after sending a message to the other Samantha.

  “You said that the doors are secured during entry to control the crowds, but I’m assuming that they are all unlocked from the inside to allow for emergency exiting?” I ask.

  “Yes. Once the show has started, all the doors are unlocked with security posted at regular intervals,” he explains.

  “The girl who went missing, Brianna Wright, sent a message to a friend mistakenly thinking it was someone inside the show. She said that she was stuck, and someone—whom she just referred to as ‘they’—wouldn’t let her back in, so she asked that her friend come and get her. Because she sent it to the wrong person, the friend it was intended for didn’t know about it until yesterday. But the timing lines up to when she went to the concession stand and sent the picture. It seems like this occurred after she made her purchases. Does that mean anything to you? Do you know what she could have meant by that?” I ask.

  “Yes. The venue has a no-reentry policy. Once you are inside the building, you have to stay inside, or you forfeit the rest of the event.”

  “No one is allowed back in if they leave?”

  “No, that’s one of the main reasons security is posted at the doors. They make sure to warn everyone approaching the doors that if they step outside, they will not be allowed back in. That information is printed on all the tickets and prominent on the website, but you would be surprised at how many people don’t pay attention or believe it will actually be enforced. The security guards warn the guests about the rule if they leave, but obviously, they don’t stop them. They won’t hold them hostage inside the venue if they don’t want to be there. But they are also stationed there to prevent anybody from coming back inside.

  “The way that message is worded, it sounds to me like she left the building and then tried to get back in, but security stopped her. She might have been reaching out to her friends to convince security to let her back in. It wouldn’t have worked. There are no exceptions to the no-reentry policy,” Andy tells me.

  “But why would she have left? Were there vendors outside, or is there the possibility that she could have gotten turned around when trying to go to the restroom?” I ask.

  “I really can’t answer that. I know that there were some merchandise vendors out in front during the afternoon and early evening when people were arriving and lining up, but they left as soon as the majority of people were inside to prevent just that from happening. We didn’t want to seem like we were luring anybody outside just to stop them from going back in. As for her getting lost because she was going to the restroom, I really don’t think that is a possibility.” He points out a sign attached to the wall. “There are clearly marked directional signs all over the venue. All she would have to do is look, and she would have seen exactly where to go. The restrooms themselves are also very clearly marked.

  “And again, if she approached the doors, security would have informed her that if she went outside, she wouldn’t have been allowed back in. At that point, I would expect that she would say she was trying to find a restroom, and she would have been directed to one. My guess is that she’s a typical teenage girl who expects things to go her way regardless of policy or rules. She thinks that they don’t apply to her or that she could be an exception because of something she saw as extenuating circumstances. I don’t mean that in any kind of derogatory way. I know it sounds bad. I’m just saying I have a lot of experience with girls that age working at a place like this, and I frequently see them trying to skirt around the rules,” he says.

  “I understand,” I tell him, trying to stop him from continuing his spiral into backpedaling. “I am very familiar with what you’re talking about, and I have a feeling that is exactly what happened. She probably thought that she could just step outside and that if security still saw her, they’d just let her back in without a problem. You said there are security cameras on the doors. Could you show me that footage? I need to see the time stamps between when this picture was taken and when she sent the text.”

  “The head of security is in the building today. I can ask him to isolate that time for you,” Andy says.

  “Thanks.”

  He leads me through the venue to an area reserved for authorized personnel and into the security suite. A wall of monitors shows feeds from various cameras set up throughout the venue. Another desk has a single large, curved monitor. A man sits in front of that screen, fiddling with his phone. An image is pulled up and paused, showing a black-and-white still of the front hallway where Andy and I just were.

  “Hey, Kurt,” Andy says as we walk into the room. “This is the agent I was telling you about.”

  The security guard sets his phone down on the desk and spins his swivel chair around the rest of the way to face me. He puts out a hand.

  “Agent Griffin,” I tell him.

  “Kurt Brisbane. I’m head of security for the venue. I heard there’s a girl missing.”

  “Yes. Her name is Brianna Wright. She’s eighteen years old. She was here Friday night. At one point in the concert, she went to get a snack and drink at the concession stand but never made it back to her seat. She sent a text message to someone, mistakenly thinking that it was somebody she was here with, saying that she was stuck and asking her friends to come get her. The thought is she went outside and couldn’t get back in because of the security measures and ended up leaving. No one has seen or heard from her since. I would like to see security footage of the area around the concession stands as well as the exit doors.”

  Andy gives him the time frame between Brianna leaving her seat and the message being sent to Samantha Percy. He pinpoints which concession stand she was at.

  “She was sitting in A113, so an overview of the surrounding areas would be helpful.”

  Kurt turns to his screen and types in a few commands. He begins pulling up different segments of videos and isolating certain clips. With the size of the venue and the scale of the camera coverage, the sheer amount of footage available is mind-boggling. I’m glad for the time window that trims it down to a far more manageable amount of media to look through.

  Even with the specified time, it takes a while for Kurt to clip all the relevant bits of footage.

  “This is the door at the top of the steps right next to the section where she was sitting,” he points out in the first clip. “I brought it back to a couple of minutes before you think she left just to make sure. Let me know if you see her.”

  It doesn’t take long for me to see Brianna coming through the door.

  “Right there,” I say, pointing at the screen.

  She’s walking alone and doesn’t look like she is in a hurry or looking for anyone. I watch her on the screen until she disappears out of the frame. Next, Kurt pulls up another piece of video from the area around the concession stand. We continue to follow her movements as she gets in line. I see her take out her phone and snap the picture that she sent to Samantha. Glancing at the time stamp, I see that the approximate timeline I’ve been putting together is accurate.

  “Do you want me to scan forward until she’s finished at the concession stand?” Kurt asks.

  “Yes, but don’t go too fast. I want to see if anybody comes up to talk to her or if she does anything while she’s waiting.”

  He speeds up the footage just enough to save us some time watching it, but not too fast that I can’t pay attention to Brianna and how she’s behaving in line. She looks like everybody else, standing around, shifting her weight, occasionally glancing down at her phone. Nobody comes up to talk to her. She goes up to the window and makes an order, then steps to the side and waits for a few moments before collecting a drink and a couple of snack items. She turns back to walk back in the direction she came from. Then I notice her stop.

  “Hold on. Slow down.”

  Kurt lets the footage play at regular speed, and I watch Brianna move to the side so that she’s not standing in the middle of the hallway. Juggling her purchases from the concession stand, she takes out her phone and looks at the screen. Her face tightens, and she stomps out of the frame.

  “It looks like she got a text message,” Andy says.

  I nod. “All right, let’s see if we can find her.”

  Kurt brings up the next piece of footage, and we pick her up continuing down the hallway. She passes the door she came out of and continues in the direction of the front doors. The next clip is from the cameras in front of those doors. It shows Brianna walking up to one of the security guards and engaging in conversation. At first, it is just a casual exchange. I’m sure the security guard is telling her about the no-reentry policy, and she is trying to talk her way out of being held to it. They go back and forth another couple of times, then Brianna walks past him and out of the building.

  “Do you want me to change it?” Kurt asks.

  “Not yet. Let me see what happens from this angle.”

  I keep watching. The security guard at the door has turned his back and crossed his arms over his chest. He looks back and forth down the concourse, making sure everything is still under control. He turns his head toward the guard a couple of doors down, like he’s listening to something the other man is saying. His posture shifts, and his arms loosen as he turns to look over his shoulder at the glass door. The angle of the camera and the slight tint of the glass prevent me from seeing what he’s looking at, but I know it’s Brianna. She is likely tugging at the door trying to get inside, but the one-way locks are stopping her.