Chapter 41
forty-one
The cell door squealed open, metal against metal, a sound Ghost had hoped never to hear again. He kept his face blank as the deputy stepped back, eyes averted like Ghost might attack if looked at directly.
Six hours in a box, breathing recycled air that reeked of disinfectant and despair.
Six hours wondering if Naomi was safe, if Deveraux had friends who might seek retribution, if he’d lost control for nothing. Ghost stepped out without a word, shoulders square, spine straight—nothing in his posture betraying how badly his skin crawled from confinement.
“You’re goddamn lucky, Booker,” Goodwin sneered from his desk, not bothering to stand. “Next time, Marshal Brandt won’t be around to save your ass.”
Ghost didn’t acknowledge him. Engaging with Goodwin now would only extend his time in this fluorescent purgatory.
He focused instead on Walker’s steady presence beside him, on Brandt’s rigid professionalism as he signed the last of the release forms, on Boone’s barely contained rage that vibrated from him in almost tangible waves.
“Your personal effects,” the desk sergeant muttered, sliding a plastic bin across the counter.
Ghost quickly inventoried the contents—wallet, keys, pocket knife (blade under three inches, technically legal), his watch, and finally his phone. Nearly dead, of course. They’d confiscated it fully charged. He slipped it into his pocket without comment.
“We done here?” Walker asked Brandt, his voice calm but edged with steel.
“Just about,” Brandt replied, signing one final form with an elegant, practiced flick of his wrist. “Sheriff, I’ll expect full cooperation with our investigation moving forward.” He slid the clipboard back to the desk sergeant. “Including any evidence related to Sampson Padilla’s death.”
Goodwin’s laugh held no humor. “You federal boys and your paperwork.” He swiveled in his chair, dismissing them. “Feel free to waste taxpayer money chasing wild geese. My department has actual crimes to solve.”
Ghost felt Boone tense beside him, ready to respond, but Walker caught his eye and gave a slight shake of his head. Not here. Not now.
“Let’s go,” Walker murmured, already moving toward the exit.
Ghost followed, cataloging everything as he walked—the positions of the security cameras, which deputies avoided eye contact, which ones watched him with naked hostility.
He itched to draw his phone and call her—six hours without contact; six hours where anything could have happened to Naomi—but the blinking red battery demanded he wait.
The night air hit him like a physical blow as they stepped outside—crisp, cold, and blessedly free of the stale, recycled breath of the jail. His lungs expanded, drawing in his first full breath since Goodwin dragged him away in cuffs.
“You okay?” Walker asked quietly, falling into step beside him as they crossed the parking lot.
Ghost gave a single sharp nod. He wasn’t, not really, but he would be once he saw Naomi, once he verified with his own eyes that she was safe. The need to get to her clawed at his insides with increasing urgency.
“Where is she?”
“Ava Charlo’s place,” Boone answered. He didn’t need to ask who they were talking about. “I called a couple hours ago to check in. Ava said she was fine, just waiting on us to spring you.”
Some of the tension in Ghost’s shoulders eased. Ava’s cabin was secure enough—isolated, with good sight lines—but it was still not where he wanted Naomi to be while a potential kidnapper roamed free.
“Deveraux?”
“Released from the hospital,” Brandt said. “But he slipped the surveillance team I put on him.”
Ghost ground his teeth against the urge to track the fucker down and finish what he’d started. “He knows his DNA will match the samples from the barn.”
“Yeah, probably,” Brandt said. “If he’s smart, he skipped town and we don’t have to worry about him retaliating.”
Nobody said what they were all thinking: Mitch wasn’t smart. He wasn’t the brains of this operation. At most, he was a foot soldier, not the ringleader.
Which reminded Ghost of something else they needed to discuss. He stopped short and turned to Walker.
“You were bluffing, right? In there, with Goodwin, when you hinted at contacting Isolde?”
Walker’s face remained impassive, and that told him all he needed to know. Walker would have absolutely called her if he thought it would help.
Fuck.
“Tell me you didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” Walker confirmed.
Well, he supposed that was something. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the idea of Walker actually calling Isolde for help or the fact that he’d been willing to. Either way, it meant Walker had been desperate. More desperate than Ghost had realized while sitting in that cell.
But he’d worry about that later.
Right now, he had only one focus.
“I need to get to Naomi.” He scanned for Walker’s truck. His own was still at the impound lot, held as “evidence” in what was clearly Goodwin’s petty attempt to make his life harder.
“We’ll all go,” Walker assured him. “But first—”
Brandt’s phone rang, cutting him off. The marshal glanced at the screen, then answered with a curt, “Brandt.”
Ghost watched his face as he listened, noting how his expression shifted from professional neutrality to sharp focus. This wasn’t routine. This was significant.
“You’re certain?” Brandt asked. “Run it again.” He listened for another moment, then: “Send it through now. I want the full report.” He ended the call, sliding the phone into his pocket.
“What?” Walker demanded, voicing the question Ghost wouldn’t ask.
Brandt looked at each of them in turn, his gaze settling finally on Ghost. “The DNA results from Leila Padilla’s body. They got a match.”
Ghost went very still. “Not Sampson Padilla.”
“No.” Brandt’s voice was flat. “Julius Charlo.”
Naomi’s cousin. The man who’d grown up with her, who she trusted implicitly. Who she’d mentioned was one of the only people who’d believed her about Mary Rose.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Walker demanded.
“No question,” Brandt said. “The sample from beneath her fingernails is a perfect match to Julius Charlo’s DNA on file from when he applied to Fish and Wildlife. And there’s more—they found trace evidence linking him to the barn where we found Naomi and the other girls.”
Ghost’s mind raced, connecting pieces that had seemed disparate before. Julius Charlo—the community pillar, the trusted tribal liaison. The man who had easy access to the reservation, to the casino where Leelee worked, to vulnerable women who might trust him based on his position alone.
“Does Goodwin know?” Boone asked, jerking his head back toward the station.
“Not yet,” Brandt said. “This came directly to me from the federal lab.”
Ghost’s phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket—a specific pattern, three short pulses, three long ones, three short.
SOS.
The fox pendant alert.
Time slowed, crystallized, shattered as he pulled out the phone, his fingers suddenly clumsy. The screen lit up, confirming what he already knew: Naomi had activated the emergency signal.
And then the fucking phone died.