“I need it in one.”
“You’ll have it in two,” he snaps, all professionalism stripped down to steel. “And listen to me, Sebastian. If he called you, he wants you moving. He wants you to be predictable. Emotional.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel until my knuckles blanch. “Too late,” I say.
Elliott doesn’t argue. “Text me your location.”
I hang up and do it. I don’t like leaving a trail, but this isn’t about my comfort. This is about Ivy’s safety.
I call Ivy’s driver again. It goes straight to voicemail.
My jaw locks.
I call Ivy’s father. He answers too fast, voice already tense. “Sebastian? What’s going on?”
“I’m on my way,” I say. “Police are being dispatched. Stay outside. Do not go into the house.”
“I’m eight minutes away?—”
“Stop,” I cut in. “Pull over somewhere visible. Wait for the police. She has a stalker. He’s not stable.”
There’s a sharp exhale.
Then, carefully, he asks, “Who is this man?”
“Silas Reeves.”
“I know him. Well, I knowofhim.”
“Then listen to me. I’ll tell you when Ivy is safe,” I say.
“Sebastian—”
“I’m not asking,” I snap. “I’m telling you. Donotgo inside.” I end the call before he can argue.
If he gets himself hurt, that’s two people bleeding because I was too slow.
The closer I get, the more the world narrows to street signs. Turns. The time changing on my clock. Five minutes becomes three.
And the last stretch is the worst because my brain starts doing what it does best—building the most likely scenario.
He grabbed her when she was alone. Either when she arrived or while she was inside. He may still have her there, but I doubt it. He’d want to leave with her, knowing I’d be coming here.
My tires screech as I pull into the driveway of her father’s house and park crooked, barely braking before I’m out of the car.
The house looks normal. Peaceful. The front door is closed.
I move fast, scanning the perimeter. I don’t hear or see anything.
Something draws me to the patio. I notice the lid isn’t fully closed.
I try the door, sweat sliding down my spine.
It opens.
I step inside, eyes darting around. Take-out containers sit open on the counter, dumplings going cold. The kitchen smells like ginger and sesame oil and something sharper beneath it—her fear.
I spot Ivy’s phone on the counter.
