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Trevor gives me a quick nod in understanding and says, “You find that kid, then you can come join me.” He winks, as cool as ever, and leads Stella away.
“Are they married?” Alex asks.
“For all practical purposes,” I answer. “All right. I’m going to call Sullivan from my office.” I pause. Alex has been mostly silent. “Do you think this is good news? The spliced video?”
Alex frowns. “Do you know what we call silent kidnappers?”
I shake my head, but an unsettled sensation stirs in my gut. I’m pretty sure I know where she’s going with her answer.
“Killers.” She chews her thumbnail, thoughtful. When her gaze lifts to look me in the eye, she adds, “Let’s hope he’s received a ransom.”
CHAPTER13
114 Hours Missing
Alex
My chaotic thoughts churn through the facts. There was an abduction. There should have been a crime scene. But I didn’t find anything. Not even a suspect fingerprint. Are we dealing with professionals? And if yes, what does that mean? Why?
As unreadable as ever, Ryan commands the room. Every time my gaze travels to him, I jerk it back, down, or to a far corner. A slight tingle persists on my swollen lips. And it is truly ridiculous, because someone abducted Sophia. That’s where I should focus. Dad counsels against fraternization for this reason. Divided attention reaps failure.
My phone vibrates, and a photo of my dad floats to the screen. It’s a selfie of the two of us near the Dover cliffs. My hair blows wildly in the wind, partially covering his face, but he’s smiling for the camera. What will he say when I confirm what he no doubt has already read in the news? It is an abduction, I was first on the crime scene, and I found nothing. Years of following him around, learning from him, and I fell for a cleaned room and a snippet of video. I hit decline.
Through the glass wall, Arrow employees sit at cubicles, the worst kind of cubicles, basically tables spread out in the middle of the room with no privacy walls. Heads are bent. Almost all of the employees wear headsets. Shiloh’s neon pinwheels bob up and down as she works away at her station.
Whoever did this knew Jack. They knew who he uses for a security company. They probably knew he had a business dinner Monday evening. This is not random. But without a ransom, why? I want to see the photos of the frequent visitors to the house.
“Hi, Shiloh? I’m Alex. Do you mind showing me those photos?”
“Sure. Pull up a seat.”
The chairs in the cubicle farm are on wheels, so I roll an empty one over to her desk.
“Where’s the accent from?”
“Pick that up, did ya?” Since moving to California, I’ve become used to people asking where my accent is from. Sometimes I ask for guesses. I get a variety of responses. Some say Great Britain, but others will guess Australia or even South Africa. One of my students guessed New Zealand. “Scotland.”
“Was immigration as much of a bitch as they say?”
“I have dual citizenship, so I wouldn’t know. My mom was American, my dad Irish. Most of my childhood was in Edinburgh with summers in the US.” My focus is on her monitor. She has multiple windows open. She’s closing windows right and left via the mouse under her right hand. I’ve been told I leave too many windows in my browser open, but this girl takes the cake. My laptop would crash.
“That’s still a lot of paperwork, right?”
“I wouldn’t know. My parents handled it all when I was a kid.”
“Huh. I have a friend who wants to come over. She says it’s nearly impossible.” Now she’s opening folders. I clasp my hands between my thighs to control my jitters. “Are you gonna stay here or are you going back?”
“Planning on staying.”
Prickles climb my spine. I glance over my shoulder and freeze. Ryan’s penetrating icy blues send goosebumps scurrying along my arms.
“This guy has come by the most,” Shiloh says. I break my gaze from Ryan and check out her screen. Disappointment pokes me.
“That’s Wayne. Jack Sullivan’s friend and neighbor.”
“Figured he must be a close friend. He has a key. He’s not a board member.” The screenshot shows him at the front door, his hand suspended in air, reaching for the doorknob. Shiloh labels the folder “Wayne.”
“His last name is Killington,” I tell her, and she types.
