“Let’s go,” Walker murmured, already moving toward the exit.
Ghost followed, cataloging everything as he walked—the positions of the security cameras, which deputies avoided eye contact, which ones watched him with naked hostility.
He itched to draw his phone and call her—six hours without contact; six hours where anything could have happened to Naomi—but the blinking red battery demanded he wait.
The night air hit him like a physical blow as they stepped outside—crisp, cold, and blessedly free of the stale, recycled breath of the jail. His lungs expanded, drawing in his first full breath since Goodwin dragged him away in cuffs.
“You okay?” Walker asked quietly, falling into step beside him as they crossed the parking lot.
Ghost gave a single sharp nod. He wasn’t, not really, but he would be once he saw Naomi, once he verified with his own eyes that she was safe. The need to get to her clawed at his insides with increasing urgency.
“Where is she?”
“Ava Charlo’s place,” Boone answered. He didn’t need to ask who they were talking about. “I called a couple hours ago to check in. Ava said she was fine, just waiting on us to spring you.”
Some of the tension in Ghost’s shoulders eased. Ava’s cabin was secure enough—isolated, with good sight lines—but it was still not where he wanted Naomi to be while a potential kidnapper roamed free.
“Deveraux?”
“Released from the hospital,” Brandt said. “But he slipped the surveillance team I put on him.”
Ghost ground his teeth against the urge to track the fucker down and finish what he’d started. “He knows his DNA will match the samples from the barn.”
“Yeah, probably,” Brandt said. “If he’s smart, he skipped town and we don’t have to worry about him retaliating.”
Nobody said what they were all thinking: Mitch wasn’t smart. He wasn’t the brains of this operation. At most, he was a foot soldier, not the ringleader.
Which reminded Ghost of something else they needed to discuss. He stopped short and turned to Walker.
“You were bluffing, right? In there, with Goodwin, when you hinted at contacting Isolde?”
Walker’s face remained impassive, and that told him all he needed to know. Walker would have absolutely called her if he thought it would help.
Fuck.
“Tell me you didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” Walker confirmed.
Well, he supposed that was something. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the idea of Walker actually calling Isolde for help or the fact that he’d been willing to. Either way, it meant Walker had been desperate. More desperate than Ghost had realized while sitting in that cell.
But he’d worry about that later.
Right now, he had only one focus.
“I need to get to Naomi.” He scanned for Walker’s truck. His own was still at the impound lot, held as “evidence” in what was clearly Goodwin’s petty attempt to make his life harder.
“We’ll all go,” Walker assured him. “But first?—”
Brandt’s phone rang, cutting him off. The marshal glanced at the screen, then answered with a curt, “Brandt.”
Ghost watched his face as he listened, noting how his expression shifted from professional neutrality to sharp focus. This wasn’t routine. This was significant.
“You’re certain?” Brandt asked. “Run it again.” He listened for another moment, then: “Send it through now. I want the full report.” He ended the call, sliding the phone into his pocket.
“What?” Walker demanded, voicing the question Ghost wouldn’t ask.
Brandt looked at each of them in turn, his gaze settling finally on Ghost. “The DNA results from Leila Padilla’s body. They got a match.”
