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He pulled out his phone. “I’m calling Jen Scott.”
I put my hand over his. “I can’t read her, you know.”
“Yeah, you said…” He trailed off, searched my eyes.
“She was alone outside Quaid’s hospital room. Not for long, but?—”
“You don’t think…”
“That dog tag thing has been niggling at me. It means Paul Quaid was in the military. And didn’t that first episode of Misty and Zig’s podcast say Jen Scott was ex-military?”
“Explosives ordinance specialist,” Mason said slowly. “You think they served together?”
“Maybe more than served together?” I asked.
“It’s all speculation. We don’t have any evidence. We could find it though.” He picked up his phone and made a call. While he waited for an answer, he said, “It’s okay. We’ll find her. We will.”
* * *
MISTY
The text came through while her phone was plugged in. Jeremy was in the shower. She heard it running and her heart squeezed. They were back together. They were okay.
She looked at her phone and saw Christy’s face, glanced at the message to see what her sister was up to, then went ice cold inside.
Christy: I have your sister. Come alone or she dies. Tell your boyfriend and she dies. I have eyes on you. Leave now. Head north. Ten seconds. Be in your car in ten seconds.
She sprang from the bed, looking around frantically.
Christy: 9.
Christy: 8.
“Shit!” She grabbed her bag, her shoes, and her keys, and dashed out the door juggling them.
Christy: 5.
Christy: 4.
She yanked open the Jeep’s door, slinging her shoes and purse onto the passenger seat, jamming her foot on the brake, and poking the start button. She didn’t even have the door shut as she reversed all the way into the road and jammed it into drive.
Christy: 3, 2, 1.
She pressed her thumb onto the mic icon, and said, “I’m fucking going already, Jesus fucking Christ!” and tapped send.
Then the car’s computer voice said, “Keep going north. I’ll tell you went to get off,” and she jumped so high she hit the ceiling. The phone had connected, as it always did. She just hadn’t been expecting it to start reading the texts aloud.
She looked into the rearview mirror. There were no cars behind her. One was coming from the opposite direction though, its headlights shining in her eyes. She looked down at herself. She wore short yoga pants and a T-shirt with elaborately decorated cupcakes all over it, and the caption, “I baked you some shutthefuckupcakes.” It had been a gift from Aunt Rachel.
She bit her lip. She ought to call Aunt Rache, if no-one else. There was no way that person could know.
Or could they? Her phone had been out of her possession for a while. What if someone had duped it or bugged it? What if they were tracking every screen-touch?
How the hell was the person watching her?
They weren’t. They said they were, but they’d kept counting after she’d already started the car.
She took the phone, texting with one thumb as fast as she could’ve spoken it.
