Page 43 of Run to Me

JENSEN

“Jensen.”

I’m a fucking mess, freaking out as I watch the unmoving dot on my phone’s tracking app. That dot should be in Philadelphia for a few more days, but it appeared in Austin late this morning.

“Yo! Jensen.”

My gut’s been fussing at me all day, warning me that something isn’t right. But how can I reach out to anyone, notify someone of my concerns, without exposing what I’ve done?

A hand touches my wrist, and my gaze travels up the person’s arm until it lands on Ainsley’s worried face. “Are you okay?” she asks.

My eyes linger on hers for a second, and I conduct a quick self-assessment before snapping out of my daze. I release the strands of hair in my fist and straighten from my slumped position against the bar. “Of course.”

She jerks her chin toward the opposite side of the bar where Tom waits with an empty pint glass and a frown. “I’ll handle this while you check on the stock we got in this morning,” she says.

I convey a silent thank you with my eyes and make a beeline for my office. Ainsley’s ability to come up with a convincing lie on the spot is both impressive and worrisome, and now I wonder how many times she’s lied to me.

An hour passes with me hiding in my office before Tatum answers my prayers, giving me the green light to investigate the dot in Austin.

Tate

I need a huge favor. Can you check on Maisy? She went back to Austin early, and she’s not responding to anyone. We’re worried.

Me

Sure. Address?

I pretend to be clueless even though I’ve had Maisy’s address memorized for months. What I didn’t have, until now, was the passcode to unlock the front door. Keys in hand, I’m hightailing it toward my Jeep while calling Javi to let him know I need his help at the bar tonight.

When I let myself into the house where Maisy’s staying, all the lights are off. Nothing but silence greets me, but she has to be here.

“Birdie?” I call out, making my way through the house and checking each room.

My first few gambles don’t pay off, leaving the last door down a short hallway. The bedroom is tidy except for an open suitcase with clothes scattered on the bed and floor. A faint light glows beneath another door to what I assume is the bathroom. I twist the knob and push the door open, my gut swirling in a frenzy.

Maisy lies on the tile floor, curled in a ball, her small form made visible by a night light. She’s afraid of the dark.

“Birdie,” I whisper, crouching beside her. She doesn’t move or make a sound, so I reach up to flip on the light switch. And screw my gut for sensing when something’s wrong. At the sight of her, a sharp pain seizes my chest, a panic I’ve experienced before.

Maisy, 10; Jensen, 13½

“Throw the can.”

“This is dumb,” Logan complains.

“Just throw it,” I say, sick and tired of his whining.

He rears his arm back and launches the can of spinach with the rope tied around it, his aim and trajectory perfect. The can sails over the limb of the oak tree in his front yard, and I easily catch it.

“Good throw,” I mutter.

He scoffs. “Only the best from the best.”

I roll my eyes because he’s full of himself when it comes to football. “Go grab the board.”

As I tie loops at each end of the rope, using the method I learned online, Logan retrieves the wood plank leaning against the tree. I check on Maisy, who’s riding her bike at the end of the street. She has a doll propped inside the basket on the front because she carries a doll everywhere.

“Here.” Logan shoves the board at my chest. “Let’s get this done and go to the field.”