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“Correct. He came and got me. Jensen and I went after the van but lost him.”
“Heard it was quite a show, you getting dragged through the parking lot. Awfully brave.”
“Not brave enough. We didn’t stop him.” And fuck if that’s not going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
Lock it down.
Whatever anger, frustration, or inadequacy I have burning inside me will have to wait. Getting Shelby back safely is the only thing I can afford to focus on right now.
“You could’ve gotten killed.” His keen eyes don’t leave my face.
“I wasn’t thinking about that.”
“Trent gave us a description of the van but not the plate number.” The agent flips to an earlier page in his notepad. “It’s not a lot to go on.”
“I’ve got pictures.” I probably should’ve led this discussion with the photos—not taken this roundabout way to get to the important information. “Not sure how fuzzy they are, though.” I’d barely glanced at them when I sent them to Z.
He raises an eyebrow. “You chased the van down and took pictures?” He holds his hand out for my phone.
“Jensen has some too, I think.”
He fiddles with my cell for a few minutes. I assume he’s sending the photos to himself.
After he finishes, he hands the phone back. “Thank you. That will be helpful.” He jerks his head toward the bathroom. We stop just outside the door and he peers inside, pointing to the clothes on the floor. “You said she would’ve been changing? Can you confirm that’s what she wore on stage?”
I glance at the crumpled black and blue dress. The cheerful flower pattern seems to mock me now. My throat constricts so tight, I can only nod in response.
His shrewd eyes land on the open window next. “Do you know if she opened that?”
“Doubtful.” I lift my chin toward the top of the window. “No way she’d be able to reach the latch.”
“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?”
