Page 95 of The Silent Hour

"I don't know and if I did, why wouldn’t you?"

I stared at her. She stared right back. Neither of us moved in the cramped dark.

"Who gave you the address?"

"I got a message."

My jaw tightened. "From?"

She sighed heavily. "Unknown number."

"And you decided to drive forty-five minutes outside Miami by yourself in the middle of the fucking night?"

"I didn't realize I needed your permission."

"You need common sense."

"I have plenty,” she retorted with obvious irritation.

"Apparently not."

She rolled her eyes and moved toward the desk. I caught her arm—just above the wrist, where the dark sweater had ridden up slightly. "Don't touch anything."

Her gaze dropped to my hand before returning to my face, something measured in it. "I know how evidence works, Ethan."

"Then you know better than to contaminate it."

"I'm wearing gloves."

She lifted her free hand, fingers spread. Black nitrile, same as mine. I released her and took a step back.

"Where's your car?"

"Far side of the property."

"Why?" I probed.

"The gate I found was chained and only an idiot would drive in through the front."

Was that a dig at me? That explained why Eric hadn't seen her come in. It didn't explain enough for everything else.

"Show me the message."

She pulled her phone from her back pocket, tapped through it, and held the screen toward me. The light from it was the brightest thing in the trailer. An unknown number. An address. A set of coordinates. And three words, typed in capitals like someone wanted to make sure they landed.

LOOK UNDERNEATH EVERYTHING.

I read it twice. "When did you get this?"

"Seven twelve, yesterday."

Fuck. I handed the phone back. "You should've told us."

"Considering I'm currently everyone's favorite suspected criminal mastermind, forgive me for not immediately calling a family meeting."

"This isn't a fucking joke."

"I know." Something shifted in her voice. The sharpness that was usually there, the edge she kept honed and ready, went quiet. For once there was no flirtation tucked beneath her words, no small provocation coiled and waiting. She looked tired. The kind that had been building for days, that no amount of composure fully covered.