Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Cameron is alive, and for now, that is all that matters. Everything else can wait.
Except, perhaps, Kendall, and the many other women in her predicament.
While shrinking the box holding Brandon’s concerned face and moving it to the corner of my screen, I remind myself that bringing Cameron home could lead us to Kendall’s abductors.
He misses my wave of the white flag. “Grayson, slow down. We need to tread cautiously with this.”
I don’t look at him while dragging a frame of the footage into the bureau’s facial recognition program. “It’s her.”
“I know,” he agrees. “But we don’t know what we’re walking into here. She ran—”
“For a reason!” I snap, my nostrils flaring. “She’s in danger. You saw her face. She looked terrified.”
Brandon’s noisy breath whistles through the speakers. “I’m not saying don’t pursue this. I am merely saying not to let your emotions cloud your judgment.”
I scoff. It’s too fucking late for that.
The system whirrs as it runs Cameron’s face through thousands of matches. I tap my foot, impatient. Seconds have never felt like hours until now.
“Come on,” I mutter, pissed that the advancement of technology hasn’t quickened the process of facial recognition.
Brandon watches me like a hawk tracking its prey, but he remains quiet. He’s trying to be the voice of reason. It isn’t working. Not when Cameron is in the same state as me, waiting for me to slot in the final piece of the puzzle.
My laptop pings, sending a surge of adrenaline racing through my veins.
The system found a match.
I click open the folder, my heart hammering like when Macy’s lips parted after only the briefest lash of my tongue. The profile is sparse, but it gives me enough information to work with—a new name, a local address, and an old Myspace username. There are no employment records and no current social media presence. That isn’t surprising. Even women freed from the madness for a year or two find it hard to follow the grain. Katie still doesn’t have a driver’s license.
I also don’t believe Cameron is out of the woods yet. A quick investigation of her previous residence reveals that the building had an above-average number of female occupants under thirty when she lived there, and their combined birthrate last year was higher than that of some rural communities.
Something shady is happening, and I am determined to find out what it is.
As my fingers flex, I scan the metadata of her file. A local law enforcement officer attached a note to Cameron’s alias after a surveillance sweep flagged her as a subject of interest two months ago. No charges were filed, and the department conducted no follow-up interviews.
After scooting closer to my makeshift desk, I pull up flagged footage dated almost eight weeks ago. It is clearer than the footage we secured today. Cameron is walking through a busy market. She has her head down so her hair, which is several shades darker than when she was abducted, covers her beautiful face, and an oversized hoodie hides her body.
I watch the footage three times before something catches my eye.
Her stomach is swollen. Not quite as round as Macy’s, but I’m skeptical that the curve in the lower half of her stomach is a food baby. It looks too firm and is beach-ball shaped.
As Macy places a recently refilled mug of coffee on the desk, I freeze the frame where a brisk gust paints Cameron’s hoodie to her body, and then I zoom in.
“She’s pregnant,” Macy murmurs, reading the footage in the same manner as me.
My breath catches as I nod. I was not anticipating this development.
Brandon rejoins the conversation as if he has always been a part of it, though he only says one word. “Jesus.”
“Could this be why she ran?”
I’m spitballing, but Brandon answers me as if I asked a question. “Possibly.” His expression morphs, the caution switched for something else. Understanding. Maybe even guilt. “But we won’t know anything until we talk to the detective who first questioned her.”
“She’s been under surveillance?” When an agreeing murmur vibrates on my lips, Macy’s brows join. “So her location has been compromised, but they didn’t move her. Why?”
I shrug, lost.
“Maybe she’s bait.” Brandon’s low tone is eerie, like he’s cautious of how I will react. “Or maybe they’re waiting to see who comes looking for her?”
Needing to pace, I push away from the desk. I feel fucking useless, like I’m sitting on my hands instead of responding as any agent should in a situation like this. I have Cameron’s current address, so why the fuck am I still here, twiddling my thumbs?
“We need to get her out. Now.”
I’m not looking at Brandon, but the whoosh of his nod tapers out of the speakers of both my laptop and the television. “We’ll need a plan. Something clean. Quiet.” His sigh is loud enough to be deafening. “But every angle is blocked. Her building is worse than a fortress. There are cameras everywhere. I doubt we will find a way in without triggering something.”