31. GRAYSON
31
GRAYSON
“Any updates?”
The phone felt like a lead block in my hand as I waited outside this grungy gas station bathroom for Barry’s update, my muscles tense with fatigue and frustration.
“I’m making progress,” Barry’s voice rumbled over the phone, as slow as molasses. “My IT guy is untangling the web of digital fingerprints on these documents—every keystroke, every time stamp, every breadcrumb. And I’ve got a finance bloodhound sniffing out the money trail.”
“But no smoking gun yet?”
“Smoking guns are hard to come by, but like I said, we’re making progress.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, my gaze darting between the ladies’ room door and our car that desperately needed gas.
“I don’t know how long I can realistically keep her out of Daniel’s crosshairs,” I admitted.
“We’re working around the clock on this one,” Barry assured.
I sighed. “And what about the other thing?”
There was a beat of hesitation on the line. “You sure you want me to prioritize a resource to find him?”
“I don’t want anything prioritized over this current investigation. But at some point, I would like to find the guy, yes.”
“With a rap sheet like his, it won’t be too difficult to smoke him out of whatever hole he’s crawled into.”
Good.
“What are you going to do with him when you find him?” Barry asked.
I opened my mouth to tell him I wasn’t going to answer that one, but suddenly, a thump from inside the ladies’ room made my spine stiffen.
“Ivy?” I called out.
Silence.
I ended the call, shoved my phone into my pocket, and reached for the gun in my waistband, quickly attaching the silencer hidden in the hoodie I’d thrown on when we got here.
“Ivy?”
I grabbed the handle of the restroom’s door. But it wouldn’t budge.