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“It’s a pleasure to officially meet you,” Archer said without holding out his hand, although his countenance was warm, friendly.

“You, too,” Kylie said, peering up at him. “You were at the house when y’all found me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Archer turned, gesturing toward the other man approaching. “And this is my partner, Atticus James.”

Kylie glanced between them. “Partner? As in…?”

“Work partners,” Atticus said simply.

“Oh. Okay.” Kylie smiled. “Gotcha.”

While she peered around the space, likely surprised and impressed by what she saw, I turned my attention to Brantley as he came out of the kitchen, a cup of coffee in hand.

“Where’s Reese?” I asked him, shaking my head when he offered coffee by holding up his cup and lifting his eyebrows.

“At the house. Talkin’ to Z.”

“Somethin’ wrong?”

Brantley shook his head. “He’s just fillin’ Z in on the new info.”

Because Brantley’s task force was under the umbrella of Sniper 1 Security, I assumed the discussion was a formality. Zachariah Tavoularis, known to everyone as simply Z, was the man overseeing the task force from their side. At least that was my understanding.

“I’ve tasked Archer and Atticus with findin’ Calloway,” Brantley noted, gesturing toward one of the electronic boards that contained detailed information about the case. “They’re workin’ with Kieran to get as much information as they can about him.”

It took effort, but I managed to bite my tongue. I was not in the right headspace to talk about my cousin. The man had let me believe my wife was dead for months. And yeah, I could admit he had done right by Kylie, getting her out of that house and taking her somewhere safe. But that didn’t excuse the fact he’d let her nearly die and kept us in the dark. The past two years had been hell on her family, and my own fucking cousin hadn’t bothered to give us the news that she was alive.

Again, now was not the time, and this was definitely not the place to get into that.

“That’s the room I was in,” Kylie said from across the room. She glanced back at us and pointed. “Is that the house?”

“It is,” Brantley informed her. “Kieran confirmed it.”

I moved toward her, as did Gage and Brantley. It was the first time I was seeing the photos. As I studied the dilapidated room with the filthy mattress and the blood stain near the rusted chain bolted to the floor, a haze of red clouded my vision.

Kylie continued to skim the images on the screen, flipping through them when Archer showed her how to use it.

I glanced at Brantley. He looked apologetic, likely as bothered by the idea of her finding them as I was. The last thing I wanted was for my wife to relive that hell all over again.

“Do you have any idea where Meredith’s daughter might be?” I asked, wanting to get to the real reason we were there.

Before Brantley could answer, a buzzer sounded at the door. The security camera feed on the screen showed an image of Meredith and Decker waiting patiently outside.

I ground my molars together and waited for the inevitable drama that was going to follow.

Chapter Forty-One

Friday, October 14, 2022

Kylie

Nine days.

That was all the time I’d had to get familiar with this new phase of my existence. It wasn’t even enough time to adjust to the difference in my kids, the house, their life without me, much less to wrap my head around everything else that was going on.

Not only what I’d learned about Cicily Rose—my half-sister—but also my mother and the role she had played in my kidnapping. I guess I should say the role her existence played because she wasn’t responsible. I knew that. It wasn’t her fault Martin had kidnapped and imprisoned me in an effort to draw her out. His rationale had been flawed from the jump because my mother hadn’t cared enough to stick around, so why the hell would she give a shit that I died?

Although I’d spent about half an hour in her company that day at Brantley and Reese’s, I hadn’t talked to her. Standing there, listening to them talk about the nightmare I’d lived, I had stared at Meredith, wondering why she couldn’t be bothered to come to my funeral. Of course, knowing she hadn’t hurt in ways I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. What made it doubly worse was that, based on what I’d learned during that brief time, she had been aware of my death. Aware, and she still didn’t care.