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“Absolutely.”
“What’s his name?
“Owen Boucher.” Thank God, I happen to know that, thanks to overhearing part of Reed’s phone call in Maui and then looking the guy up on the River Records website for kicks.
Angus strides over to his laptop on the card table and clacks away. Presumably, he’s googling Owen’s name. Hopefully, he’s finding Owen on the River Records website, because, as I recall, the smiling photo of him there looks vaguely like Henn. Close enough, anyway, that Angus won’t notice the switch-a-roo, especially since FaceTime doesn’t provide the clearest view of a person. Regardless, what choice do I have than to give this idea a try? This is literally the only thing I can think to do to try to save my life.
Still bent over his computer, Angus says, “Is Owen’s number the one listed on the River Records website?”
“No. That’s the number that goes to the receptionist. Reed always talks to Owen on an unlisted number. That’s the one I’ve memorized because Reed told me not to save it into my phone because it’s a direct line for Reed’s use only.”
Angus straightens up and heads toward me again. As he moves, I realize my phone screen sticking out of his pocket is no longer black—it’s illuminated. My phone has been turned on! Holy fuck! Is that Henn? Has Henn realized I’m missing and he’s checking my location? If so, Henn has finished his work by the time Angus is sitting across from me again. In fact, my phone is back to black by the time Angus is leaning back in his chair. Oh, shit. Did I imagine my phone being turned on? Was that a hallucination brought on by wishful thinking?
“You’ll play it off casually with Owen,” Angus instructs. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything’s great. You simply forgot to save Reed’s latest number, as usual, and need the new one.”
“Got it.”
“If the assistant doesn’t immediately give you Reed’s number, or if I get a vibe you’re giving him a coded message, or if you scream for him to call the police, I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear while he’s watching. Understand?”
Tears threaten, but I swallow them down. “Yes. Owen might not answer a call from an unknown number, though. If he doesn’t pick up, maybe you could text him first to let him know—”
“I’m not stupid. I’ve rigged my phone to spoof your number, so it’ll look like you’re the one calling. Now, what’s the assistant’s number?”
43
HENN
“Why did Hannah go all the way out there?” I ask, staring at my laptop screen.
We’re on Reed’s private jet. He’s sitting across the aisle from me, looking at his own laptop. “You broke down and hacked her?”
“I’m far more worried about her safety at this point than I am about her being pissed at me for checking her location.” I turn my laptop screen toward him. “Look. She’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“Does she know anyone who lives out there?”
“Not that I know of.” I turn my laptop around and quickly power Hannah’s phone off again. Hopefully, she didn’t notice my snooping. If she did, I can only hope and pray she understands why I did it and forgives me. “Shit. I thought knowing her location would calm my nerves, but it’s only freaking me out, even more.”
My phone rings with an incoming FaceTime call from Hannah. Oh, thank God, she’s safe. Granted, based on timing, Hannah’s almost certainly calling to chew me out for hacking her phone again, but I’ll take that bullet every time in a situation like this to confirm she’s okay. Even though Reed is sitting across from me on the plane, he won’t hear the ass-chewing I’m about to get, since I’m wearing my earbuds. And so, I connect the call from where I’m sitting.
“Hannah.” I force myself to press my lips together and wait for her to speak. My instinct is to ramble a long string of apologies and explanations, but there’s an outside chance the timing of her call is coincidental, so why throw myself underneath a bus if it’s not absolutely necessary?
Hold up. Hannah’s appearance is deeply concerning. She looks ragged. And she’s got what looks like a welt on the side of her face. Is her cheek slightly swollen? And what’s that redness around her mouth? It looks like she’s recently ripped a Band-Aid off from that spot. Suddenly, all the explanations and apologies rattling around inside my head vanish, replaced by nothing but acute worry and anxiety. My heart pounding, I blurt, “What happened to your cheek?”
Hannah’s eyes flicker to a spot beyond the phone. And that’s when I realize the angle-and-distance ratio of the camera to Hannah’s face is off. Too far away. Hannah’s not holding the phone. Someone else is doing it.
“Hey, Owen,” Hannah says with a tight smile.
