“How—”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why’d you call me, then?”
“Just needed to hear your voice.”
A sharp inhale on her end of the line. “Dad, is everything okay?”
“It will be.” He forced casual brightness into his voice. “Just wrapping things up here.” He hated lying to her, but he needed the lie as much for himself as she did.
“When are you going to be home?” she asked.
“Should be there by Friday night.”
“Ooh, you can go to the tourney with me on Saturday!”
“Count on it.”
He couldn’t wait to see her again, give her a hug, and be that awful parent who got too into their kid’s games. Maybe it would be enough to fill the emptiness that had already started to creep in, the absence he anticipated. This case was almost over. They knew who the bad guy was; they just had to catch him now. And when they did—Lincoln twirled the braided silver band around his finger—what would happen to Mr. and Mr. Polk? Would they go into the box with the rings, never to be brought out again? He’d go back to being Professor Lincoln Monroe and Carter would go back to being Special Agent Undercover. Lincoln didn’t think he’d found enough yet to convince Carter to settle, if that was what Carter even wanted, after the fight they had yesterday. “Dad?”
He shook himself out of the spiral. “Sorry, just trying to decide what to play. Any suggestions?”
“You’re in a church, do you have an option? If so, ‘Freebird.’”
“I should have never let you see that movie.” And he absolutely did not want this to go the way of The Kingsmen, no matter how cool that scene was on film.
“‘Who Will Save Your Soul’?” Elena suggested.
“I’m so glad we taught you about good music.”
“Or some Taylor Swift.”
They’d taught her too much about sarcasm too. “Hanging up now.”
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, sweetie.”
He pocketed the phone and picked up his Martin, strumming—and missing—a few notes of the Jewel song. Not that one, then.
“You don’t look so good,” Jo said as she crossed the vestibule to him.
“Better than I was five minutes ago.” He continued to strum the guitar as he spoke, getting his fingers loose and falling into a rhythm. They gravitated toward one of his favorites—Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”
“We get word from O’Shea?”
She checked the phone in her hand. “Nothing yet.”
“Do you think we can trust Larry?”
With the chief’s help, they’d examined more of the pictures, more of the town’s land records, and narrowed down the possible locations where Ryan could be holding Carter, Trudy, and Barry. With Jo coordinating APD officers and O’Shea his agents, they’d found fresh tire tracks matching Ryan’s SUV at an old farm near the Petticoat property. Larry had suggested he make the approach. One last-ditch effort to defuse the situation.
“I’ve worked for him for years,” Jo said. “He’s loyal to a fault. That’s how he got into this mess. But I believe him when he says he’s trying to get out of it. He’s trying to get his friend out of it too. That’s what he’s been trying to do all along.”
Jo’s phone rang, startling them both. “Mark. Hey, ba—” She held the phone away from her ear and clicked speaker. Utter chaos reigned on the other end—sirens, shouts, and the blast of fire hoses. “What’s going on?” Jo asked, voice raised.
Every second O’Shea didn’t respond, another boulder of dread formed in Lincoln’s stomach, was carried up his throat on a wave of bile. He strummed faster, hoping the tune would give him some comfort.
