Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
No, this can’t be happening.
34
Asher
The first call hits voicemail. So does the second. By the third unanswered ring I’m tightening my grip on the steering wheel, gut registering a wrongness that logic tries to dismiss. Maybe Charlotte turned off her phone after a late girls’ night, or maybe they’re sleeping in. Still, my pulse is climbing zones I usually reserve for gunfire. Something’s off.
At 09:26 I pull into the underground garage beneath Charlotte’s tower. The guard at the gate tips his cap, unaware that threat probability in my internal algorithm just leapt from “low” to “amber.” I kill the engine, slide the Glock into an appendix holster, and pocket two extra mags. The elevator up seems sluggish, fluorescent panels flickering overhead like they, too, sense trouble.
Hallway carpet. Neutral beige, newly vacuumed. Door to 1402 is ajar—just shy of a click. My breathing shifts to controlled compression. I draw closer, pushing the door with my foot.
The bouquet is the first thing my eyes lock on: sunflowers, drooping in a careless pile by the threshold, stems snapped. I pivot, sweep the entryway, then step in low. Margaret Lane lies on the sectional, blanket half-tangled, wine glass resting atop a coffee table. No Charlotte. No Melanie.
I kneel beside Margaret, two fingers to her neck—pulse steady, respiration normal. “Mrs. Lane,” I say, keeping my voice calm but firm. “Margaret, wake up.”
Her eyelids flutter, pupils slow to focus. She frowns. “Asher? What—what time is it?” She reaches groggily for the blanket. “I must have dozed off.”
“Where’s Charlotte?” I ask. “Where’s Melanie?”
Confusion ripples across her features. She straightens, the movement stiff. “They were here—girls’ night. We watched movies—and I dozed, I think. They were texting that boy...”
“Boy?” I zero in. “Margaret, I need every detail. Start from when I left.”
She knots the blanket around her shoulders, mind scouring for the timeline. “You left just before evening. We poured another glass of wine. Melanie was texting—she wouldn’t say who, just that his name was Diego.”
I blink hard. Diego. Melanie’s online boyfriend. Could be benign, could be a backdoor. “Keep going.”
“We watched romcoms.” She gestures weakly at the discarded bouquet. “I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up now, you were here.”
“Any other visitors? Door knocks you remember?”
She shakes her head, a hand to her temple. “No. Not that I remember.”
I step to the hall. Master bedroom: bed untouched, pajamas tossed across a chair. Guest room: lights off, but a faint floral perfume lingers. There’s zero clues. A clean sweep. Professional.
I return to the couch. “Margaret, did they say where Diego lived? Any surname?”
She bites her lip, eyes watering. “No. Just that he was ‘local’—they didn’t want to scare me.”
I pull out my sat-phone, speed dial. “Dean, code black. Charlotte and Melanie are missing. Estimated window 0100 to 0800. Victim’s mother was asleep on the couch. Need cell-tower dumps for both phones and IP trace on a contact named Diego—online connection, unknown last name.” I pause, glance at the bouquet again. “Also note: intruders left flowers, so staging is deliberate. Condo camera feed?”
Dean’s keyboard rattles. “Pulling now. Shit—feeds cut at 01:47. Main DVR severed remotely.”
Someone with infrastructure knowledge. “GPS on Charlotte’s phone?”
“Last ping 02:02 near the tower. Then dead.”
I pace, mental map forming. “Send a patrol to check Melanie’s Mercedes in garage, stall 47C. They may have taken it for cover.”
“Copy.” Dean’s tone is terse. “Anything else?”
“Possible link: new boyfriend named Diego. Could be an alias. Begin dark-web sweeps. Also cross-ref with cartel intermediaries from Wade’s call log.” I move to the foyer, inspecting the lock—no forced entry. Likely invited.
“It could be an inside job,” I mutter.
Dean’s voice lowers. “You think Wade orchestrated from inside?”
“Not alone. He’s not that clever, but his financiers are. They watched him fail; now they’re using Charlotte for leverage.”
Dean exhales. “I’ll flag the federal task force.”
“I’m heading to the jail to sweat Sinclair. Can you get me fifteen minutes in interrogation with him?”
“Yeah, Sheriff Keller owes me.” Dean clicks off.
Margaret grips my sleeve, dread darkening her eyes. “You’ll find her?”
I squeeze her hand. “I will, ma’am. Lock the door, wait for the deputy I’ve sent. Do not open for anyone but uniform. Understand?”
She nods, tears sliding silently. I steady her shoulders, then exit, mind partitioning into pursuit flowcharts.
County lockup is a concrete monolith baking in the summer sun. Dean meets me at intake, badge clipped, file folder in hand. The deputy at the desk looks wary, but Keller already signed the permission slip. They walk us to Interview Room B—linoleum floor, stainless table bolted down. Wade Sinclair is led in wearing orange scrubs, wrists shackled. He looks smaller than I remember. But his smirk remains.
“Ah, Hawke,” he drawls. “Miss me?”
I sit, my forearms resting on the metal, my eyes ice-level. “We can skip pleasantries. Where are Charlotte and Melanie?”
His brow wrinkles in mock confusion. “I thought you were their heroic savior. Misplace them already?”