The forensics crew seems to be finished with Shelby’s room. After they leave, I slide up to Agent Jackson. “I need to get my computer. That gonna be a problem?”
I jerk my chin toward the table where I’d been set up earlier. Pants and Jigsaw had located the photo booth and cameras and packed them in the truck earlier.
Agent Jackson scans the hallway and shrugs. “Yeah, go ahead.”
I pack quickly, trying not to let my mind linger on the stillness. Piles of Shelby’s colorful clothing lay scattered around, taunting me for failing her. She’s too bright and vibrant to be caught up in the dark fantasy of a madman.
Is she awake by now? Scared? Wondering how I let this happen to her?
Fingerprint powder covers almost every surface. “You pull any prints yet?” I call out to Agent Jackson.
From the doorway, he eyes me wearily. “Nothing yet. He might not be in the system.”
No, I bet he’s not. Probably flies under the radar of life, fooling everyone into believing he’s a nice, normal, if not somewhat weird, guy.
When I’ve collected the computer equipment I borrowed from Ice, I sling the backpack over my shoulder and step into the hallway. “What’s your plan?” I ask Agent Jackson.
“We’ve got an APB for a white van. Just says we’re looking for a white female, early twenties, possibly inside a box or trunk in the cargo area.”
“Yeah? Any hits yet?”
He cocks his head, projecting a would-I-still-be-standing-here-if-I-had face at me. “No.”
My phone buzzes and I pull it out. Jackson watches my every move like a hawk.
Z.
“Hey,” I answer, stepping away, putting a few feet between me and the nosy FBI agent.
“Where you at, brother?” Z asks.
The excited rush of his voice sets me on edge. “Still at the arena. With the Fed working Shelby’s case.”
“Good. I pulled a name. Guy matches our profile. White van with the same last couple numbers we were able to get off the plate. Residence is not too far from the arena.”
I’m already moving toward the exit.
Behind me, there’s a quick whistle—Jigsaw, signaling to the others it’s time to move.
“I’m sending you the info, but bro, I don’t want you going there.”
I stop in my tracks. “What? Are you—”
“Rooster. Chill. Give the agent the info I’m sending. Play nice. Be cooperative. Trust me.”
Brotherhood. Loyalty. The club works because we trust each other with our lives. Do I trust Z with Shelby’s life?
Yeah, I do. He’s put his faith in me to protect his wife, Lilly, before. There’s no way in hell Z would do anything to jeopardize Shelby.
Still, I can’t help the urge to hunt down the piece of shit who grabbed my girl. Pushing against my nature, I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the picture and address Z sent.
Martin Suggs. Fifty-three. Virginia address. Looks awfully similar to one of Shelby’s over-enthusiastic Instagram followers.
“Jackson!” I call, because I can’t force my feet to move away from the door leading outside. He scowls and walks over.
“I promised to be straight with you, right?” I wait until he confirms with a quick nod before continuing. “My guy has a name.”
He scowls at me. “Do I even want to know—”
“Probably not.” I cut him off and send him the info. He rushes to confer with some of the other cops and I return to Z.
“Tell me why I just did that?” I growl into my phone.
“Stop and think. If this is our guy and he used his own vehicle, he’s not bringing her back to his place. After the way you chased down the van, he knows you probably got the plate number. It’s too easy. Besides that, I’m looking at an aerial shot of his house right now. He’s in the city.” He pauses and adds, “No privacy.”
The painful understanding of what Z’s implying penetrates deep into my soul. No privacy…too many people around who might overhear Shelby’s screams. “It’s the only lead we have.” My stomach clenches. “I can’t not check it out, Z.”
“Ice is running down another angle right this second,” he promises. “Guy was left some property a few years back by an uncle. It’s in a trust, under another name, so the court records have been hard to access. We’re trying to pull the address now. Let the cops check out his house.” He lowers his voice. “You want to get to him first, brother. It’ll buy you some time if they’re wasting their efforts somewhere else.”
“I don’t even care about that.”
“You will,” he assures me. “And if she is at his house, they’ll find her.”
A strangled noise pulls from my throat. My logical brain agrees with Z’s reasoning. My heart’s ripped in half, desperate to get to Shelby.
“It’ll probably take the cops a while to even track down the name of the trust. Hope’s the one who had me search for it,” Z says. “I’m also tracking down any family members in the area you can pay a visit to if we can’t get the address. So far, it looks like the uncle was his only relative.”
Fucking great. And this stalker thinks he’s going to populate a new family with Shelby.
A second later, the decision is made for me. Agent Jackson and his buddies race past us. Guess my info panned out. Jigsaw and Pants follow, flinging questions at Jackson.
“Cops are on the move,” I say to Z.
“Head up to the clubhouse. Ice is getting everyone ready to roll out as soon as we have the address. You’re gonna need the van…” His voice falters. “Just in case.”
No need to question Z. The implication is clear. I’ll need the van in case I have to rush Shelby to the hospital.
Or in case I need to drag the body of Martin Suggs to the hog farm.
Chapter Six
Shelby
I hate soup.
It’s hotter than Hades most of the year in Texas. When you walk outside in summer, it gets so humid, it feels like you’re swimming in soup. No need to eat it.
My captor seems to be a big fan. One look in his cupboards as he’s preparing supper reveals a whole lot of canned soup.
A stockpile of soup.
Like he plans to be holed up here for a long, long time.
Time for us to…be together.
A bunch of wasps buzz in my belly, stinging me with fear from the inside out.
I study the kitchen. Dated marigold-yellow appliances. A door that I assume leads to outside with rusty-red and tan gingham curtains covering the window at the top. The window over the sink has the same interior latched shutters I’ve noticed covering the rest of the windows, blocking any outside view. This one has matching gingham window treatments.
It doesn’t give the place a homey feel. At all.
Either this guy just moved in or he hostage-proofed the place before bringing me here. I haven’t spotted a phone, a knife, or anything I could use as a weapon. Even the chair I’m currently perched on is shackled to the table with only enough room to pull it out and sit. No way to pick it up and smash it over his head.
Better the chair be chained down than me, I guess.