“Did you open it?”
“Hell no.”
“Was it like that earlier? Before her show?”
I study the window for a minute. Shelby would’ve been uncomfortable, worrying someone could spy on her. She would’ve said something. Asked me to close it. “No.”
He carefully works his way over to the sink and squats down to examine her smashed phone without disturbing it.
“She almost always has it on her,” I say. To move things along, I point to the water bottle lying on the floor. “She sent me a text saying her water tasted funny.” I pull up the message and hand over my phone, not giving a shit if he scrolls through our whole exchange. I’ve never deleted a single one of Shelby’s texts.
He hands the phone back and stares at the window, then the small shower stall. Again, he squats down, taking his cell phone out and shining the flashlight over the interior. “She use the shower?”
“Yeah, last night.”
He motions me closer and holds the shower curtain back. “Boot prints.”
My gaze lands on the bright circle of light. A few smudges of dirt surround two clear, muddy prints facing outward.
“Shit,” I grumble.
Jackson glances at my own boots and back to the prints. “Way too small to be yours.”
Something close to a snarl rumbles out of me but I don’t comment.
After a few seconds, he drops the shower curtain and climbs up on the toilet, careful not to touch the window or walls. He peers outside. “Ground level,” he mutters and sweeps his gaze over the space from the higher perspective.
He jumps down and barks a few orders at the local cops before ushering all of us back into the hallway.
“I need our crime scene people to go over this room. Since she received the letters, for now we’ll operate on the assumption it’s the same guy and not a ransom situation.” His gaze snaps to Greg. “Who would someone call, just in case someone makes a demand?”
“Her mother? But they’re dirt poor. She couldn’t afford to come up with a lot of cash. Maybe the record company…? Me, I guess.” Greg’s helpless eyes land on me. “Ransom crossed my mind. We’re trying to keep the situation quiet for that reason…”
“It’s not a ransom,” I growl. “This sick piece of shit took her.”
“Stop fucking wasting time,” Jigsaw adds, “and get some asses out there looking for her.”
Agent Jackson narrows his eyes at Jiggy but doesn’t address him. “Mr. Randall, walk with me.” He jerks his head to the side, and I follow him down the hallway leading back to the loading dock. When he seems satisfied we’re alone, he tucks his notepad into his pocket.
All professional pretenses seem to melt away as he laces his fingers together behind his head and stares down at the concrete floor for a few seconds. “Ice tells me you’re visiting from your New York charter.”
“Yeah,” I answer in a bored tone. “The bottom rocker on the back of my cut can tell you that too. What’s your point?”
His mouth slides into a bleak half-smile. “Before I waste a ton of resources, assure me that this has nothing to do with your club. You piss someone off? Another club got a beef with you? Maybe the Vipers decided to come after your old lady? Black Venom? South of Satan? Someone else?”
I should’ve seen this coming. Jackson’s done his MC homework. Goody for him.
“You said you looked at those fucking letters,” I answer through clenched teeth. “This has nothing to do with me or my club.”
“Don’t get twisted. I have to ask.”
“It’s not my club. It’s some stalker fan.”
“You understand I need to rule out every possibility, right?”
I stand firm and look him straight in the eyes. “Then do it quick and don’t waste time.”
“Is there any chance she left on her own?”
The question throws me for a second. My jaw drops. “In her trunk?”
“We don’t actually know she was in the trunk.”
“Are you fucking shittin’ me right now?” Disbelief drips from every word. “How the fuck else did she get out of here with no one seeing her?”
“Is there a possibility the stress of the tour is too much and she skipped out? This is a lot for someone her age to handle.”
“No. She’s been working toward this for years. It’s stressful, sure. But she loves it. It’s what she was born to do.”
He stares at me for a second, like maybe he didn’t expect such a corny sentiment out of my crude biker mouth. “She could have hired someone to help her escape the tour—”
“You saw the same things I did in that dressing room, didn’t you?” Frustration bleeds into my words. This ‘Shelby escape plan’ theory isn’t where he needs to waste his time. There’s no fucking way my girl decided to up and leave.
“It’s a possibility,” he suggests.
“No, it’s not. Shelby’s not a quitter. And she wouldn’t leave without telling me. If she wanted to go AWOL, all she had to do was ask. I would’ve taken her anywhere she wanted. She knows that. I was planning to join her on the road. Help take some of the stress off of her.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Any chance she wanted to get away from you, then?”
“Jesus Christ, seriously?”
“I have to ask, Mr. Randall. Honestly, if I wasn’t the one standing here, as the boyfriend, we’d be looking a lot more closely at you.”
“I was on the other side of the arena when she was taken, for fuck’s sake.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief second. “Cindy. Shelby’s hair-and-makeup person. She took video of the security guards hassling us.”
“I’ll talk to her. We’ll test the water bottle too.” He pulls out his notebook again and jots down a few lines. “Personally, I don’t think you had anything to do with it.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He sighs and glances at his notepad, flipping back a few pages. “The letters are troubling.”
Relief courses through me. He’s moving off his Shelby-ditched-the-tour-and-her-possessive-biker-boyfriend theory. “No shit.”
He ignores the sarcasm. “I had a chance to briefly read them. They did not contain any direct threats.”
“Shelby sure felt threatened by them.”
“I don’t blame her. People who make direct threats to celebrities are less likely to act.” He taps the notepad. “This indirect ‘we belong together’ crap is usually indicative that the person plans to act. Still, I’m surprised it happened this soon.”
“Your point?”
He shakes his head. “Can I be honest?”
“Please do,” I answer with as little sarcasm as I can manage.
“The fact that whoever it was pulled this off so neatly concerns me. He would have had to be stalking her real close to time the situation the way he did.”
That thought’s been brushing up against me since the second I realized she was missing.
“Not only that,” Jackson continues, “but stalking situations usually go through stages. This guy clearly has the extreme entitlement and attachment to her, but she hasn’t even had a chance to reject him.”