The Hunt by Natalie Schriefer

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.”