17. Abduction
SEVENTEEN
ABDUCTION
GIGI
Twelve hours without Jackson in our bed has me feeling restless, his scent lingering in every corner of the house. The silence in his absence is deafening—every little sound sets off my nerves.
I finally get up before sunrise. After brushing my teeth and gathering my curls into a messy bun, I slip into one of his oversized cozy sweaters paired with my leggings.
I make coffee, then take my mug and wrap in a blanket.
Settling into a chair on his patio, I sip the hot drink while watching the sunrise. It’s Sunday, and the neighborhood is as quiet as ever—out here, on the town’s edge, the houses are spread far apart.
As tranquil as it all is, my stomach ties in knots from what a week it’s been. I replay every detail of recent events while the morning sun warms the air and the lingering clouds gradually burn away.
I’m missing something,
And I can’t shake the feeling. We know Mike acted as the middleman, but who exactly was he liaising with? We also know The Jailbird yacht was used to transport both fish and guns. I suspect Jackson is holding back clues, given that he’d been tracking this Ybarra criminal for a while.
Despite my desire for a meaty story here, I may not get one given the government is involved. I’m sure some details I’ll never know.And all of this is unfolding in Love Beach—a quaint little town, according to Jackson. Right.
I head back inside and grab my laptop. My inbox is overflowing and my messages are piling up; ever since I took over the Buzz, my employees must think I vanished. Fortunately, I helped Dad build an excellent team, so the Buzz can handle itself if needed. Still, I’m eager to dive back into my work.
As I settle in at the dining table and scan through the accumulated emails, a new email pops up from Anon—my anonymous informant. For the past few years, I’ve been receiving mysterious messages with no hint of who this person is or how they originally found me.
At first, I dismissed the initial messages as a joke or a wrong number, but then more kept coming. Eventually, I followed one that tipped me off to a county controller who might be embezzling funds.
I went to Dad with the tip, and it turned into a newsworthy story. We dug deeper, reported it, and the controller was eventually arrested. Since then, I’ve listened closely to every anonymous message I’ve received.
Today’s message reads:
Anon: Meet at the Buzz office for answers into the smuggling ring.
“What?” I mutter as I read, then quickly hit reply to the email, demanding more details.
The text I had gotten the night of my attack at the warehouse had directed me there saying a truck would show up, a meeting of buyers and sellers to take place, then I’d have proof of an illegal fishing ring—which apparently never happened, because of my attack. I almost regret that I was there because if I hadn’t been, Jackson’s mission would have gone off without a hitch. He’d be the hero and sent away by now. And we might not have ever had a chance to be intimate with each other.
After several minutes with no email in reply, I glance at the time. Eight o’clock.
A knock at the front door startles the hell out of me, and I edge slowly toward the window to take a peek. There’s Officer Allison Grant, punctual as ever, knocking again.
“Hey, Allison,” I say as I open the door, and instantly, a new plan begins to form in my mind.
“Morning. I just wanted to let you know I’m taking the shift now. I’ll be right out front,” she announces, gesturing toward her patrol car. Though she was a few years ahead of me in school, we’ve become friendly as adults. I often bump into her while she patrols Love Beach, keeping the town safe.
I’m counting on her to look out for me today, too.
“Actually, I need to head to the Buzz office to work for a while. Can you drive me there and wait for a few hours?” I ask with a sweet smile, hoping not to sound like I’m begging.
“Hmm. My orders were only to keep watch,” she replies, cocking her head.
“But why would it matter if you kept watch at my office instead? I really need some time to catch up after this crazy week. Please?”
“Okay. But I’ll call it in to the station just to be safe.”
“Great. Thank you so much.”
About thirty minutes later, I leave her in her patrol car outside and step into the Buzz. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, inhaling the familiar scents of paper, ink, and the old, mechanical aroma of the printing presses—a reminder of my home away from home.
Years ago, Dad had acquired and renovated the original brick firehouse. The upper floor now houses offices, the middle is filled with the printing press, and the daylight basement serves as the archives.
While I wait for more word from my source, I make my way straight to the archive room. There, we keep a computer and equipment I’m well familiar with, having spent several summers in school compiling a digital database of every single issue of the Buzz—even though, as a teen, I barely paid attention to or read all the articles from the past thirty years.
I switch on the computer and wait, thinking about the message in my email again. Meet at the Buzz office… answers… Will my source finally reveal themselves here?
Once the computer is running, I dive into what I do best—research.
I start by looking up Ybarra’s name; nothing shows up in our paper about him.
Next, I search for The Jailbird and, again, nothing appears. Just as I expected.
I then type in “Illegal fishing,” and several old articles written by my dad come up—although he hadn’t reported on the topic for about ten years. I scan through them; the reports consist of various citizens’ accounts about sightings or rumors concerning different boats and catches, with no consistent details about the boats, times of year, or types of fish caught.
I understand why Dad stopped reporting on this—he’d said at the time how people just wanted to see their names in print. He dismissed illegal fishing as little more than a myth, similar to Sasquatch or the Loch Ness Monster—legends that are fun to joke about rather than take seriously.
I search for smuggling, but a few older articles appear about boats seized from Cuba, carrying cigars and other goods. No mention of any guns.
On a whim, I type in Officer Alden Parker’s name. Dozens of articles populate the screen: details of his awards, his exemplary safety record, and the various cases he’s worked on over the years. He’s been a model officer for so long—a hometown guy who grew up right.
Then one of them briefly mentions the tragic accident that took the Parker’s parents’ lives when Alden and Kelsea were in their early twenties, an event that hit them both incredibly hard. Kelsea nearly quit law school that year, but Parker had convinced her to soldier on.
Another article, covering the time Kelsea was attacked in New York, appears—such a heartbreaking story. I recall how gutted Parker was. We all were, Dawson as well. Since high school, all of us have been as close as a found family. It’s no wonder Jackson couldn’t believe me when I mentioned the scars and my theory that Parker and Dawson might be connected to all this chaos.
I type Noah Dawson into the search bar, and chew my cheek when the article about his mother comes up. Like Addie and Davis’ family, the Dawsons came from nothing—dirt poor. They moved here from Mississippi at the start of freshman year, and almost immediately, his father abandoned his mother and five boys. As an adult, Dawson has always tried to support his mom and brothers, even having to endure his mother’s trial and subsequent imprisonment in Charleston for drunk driving and causing a fatal accident. That period was rough on him, and we all rallied around during that difficult time.
I sift through a few articles that list his awards and accolades, though not nearly as many as Parker’s, and another article Dad wrote several years ago which admonished his less than stellar handling of a certain investigation, which is odd. In my mind, by association, I always assumed that both he and Parker were equally highly decorated cops in the area.
Something nudges me to check the archives of the high school yearbooks, which I’d scanned, and digitized, too. Parker and Dawson were both a year behind Jackson, while Davis and Beau were two years behind.
Sifting through all four years of Dawson’s class books, one fact becomes apparent: Parker always seemed to win, with Dawson coming in either second or last. Whether it was the MVP in sports, club presidencies, or even prom king, Parker consistently came out on top. It was surprising since Parker and Dawson had always been best friends—I’d assumed they were equally high achievers.
Dawson’s photos from year-to-year show him as a scrawny kid in freshman year, slowly growing into his body and filling out with muscles through senior year. I’d almost forgotten how the guys used to share stories about him being relentlessly picked on by bullies when he first arrived at school, and how they’d taken him under their wing and looked out for him.
Now, anyone meeting Dawson with his impressive physique and cocky, jovial manner would never guess the struggles he’s endured.
So absorbed I’ve been in my research that I gasp when suddenly the lights in the archive room go out. I’m sure our electric bill is always paid on auto—so what’s going on? I step cautiously through the dim room and pause at the door. Without the hum of the lights, I can hear footsteps creaking on the floor above.
Could it be an employee? They’d have a key. Or perhaps my anonymous source? But how would they manage to enter the building?
The footsteps, slow and deliberate, pass directly above me. I force down my rising panic. Damn, why haven’t I gotten a new phone yet? Tomorrow morning, I swear I’ll buy one. And where is Allison—shouldn’t she be on the lookout for anyone sneaking into the building? Unless, of course, they came in through one of the side or back windows where she couldn’t see.
Now I’m scared out of my wits.
At the top of the stairwell, the door creaks open slowly, and all I see are heavy boots on the landing. Instinct tells me to hide and observe before revealing myself.
The room is packed with towering bookshelves, so I quietly make my way to the farthest one at the end and crouch behind it. Thankfully, we’d replaced the old tile with short, office-style carpet last year, letting me tiptoe without drawing attention—even if it makes it hard to pinpoint the intruder’s exact location once they reach the bottom of the stairs.
My pulse pounds, every beat echoing in my ears. This situation feels completely wrong. Shutting my eyes for a moment, I work to steady my breathing. Jackson would want me to be strong now.
I concentrate, listening for any sound—the rustle of clothes, or a soft brush against a bookshelf near the front of the room. Then I hear a book crash at the end of that row. I swiftly move to the opposite end and hide around a corner, pressing myself flat against the end cap.
This is insane. I need to know. Who. This. Is.
“Who’s there?” I call out, my voice barely more than a croak.
All I get in response is a maniacal laugh—a laugh that sounds unmistakably male. That kind of laughter isn’t a good sign. It seems to come from behind me, perhaps a few rows away. I’m trapped now, unless I can make a dash for the stairs.
“Stop it. This isn’t funny. Reveal yourself now!” I demand, raising my voice.
The laugh echoes again, this time from the row where I’m hiding. It’s now or never, so I take a deep breath and bolt. My footsteps pound loudly on the floor as the carpet betrays my heavy steps. I’m almost to the stairs when suddenly a hand grabs my arm, yanking me to the floor. A body covers me and quickly pins me down.
“No! Please, stop!” I scream, hoping Allison hears me from her car, though I know she wouldn’t—especially not down here with these thick, soundproof cement walls.
I hit, scream, arch, bite—anything I can do to break free. I refuse to give up. All I can think about is Jackson—my protector. But he isn’t here. My mind races with desperate “what ifs”: What if he never makes it home to me? What if I don’t make it out of this alive? What if I never see him again?
During the struggle, I manage to grab a wrist. That familiar scar sends a shock through me, though I can’t tell who it belongs to.
“Parker? Dawson? Why are you doing this?” I scream in disbelief.
“Stop struggling,” the man growls in a low, deep tone, his voice still unfamiliar or perhaps deliberately concealed. Suddenly, his other hand covers my mouth with a cloth.
Trapped, I inhale a sweet scent on the material and realize—through the haze of panic—that it must be chloroform. I fight with all my strength, determined not to give in, but eventually, as everything begins to fade to darkness, the attacker pulls off his ski mask. The image is blurry, and I can hardly believe who it is. The revelation is like a puzzle piece. If only my world wasn’t going dark so I could see how it fits.