Chapter 17
Is the custody exchange over? Hez sent the text to Savannah, then waited for the pulsing ellipsis to show she was responding. He drummed his fingers on
the steering wheel of his new GMC pickup. His neurologist had finally cleared him to drive two weeks ago, and he’d planned
to buy another Audi, but Blake persuaded him that the rural back roads required something a little tougher. Driving it felt
a little like walking on stilts, but Hez appreciated the extra power and ground clearance.
He had parked by the side of the road half a mile from Savannah’s cottage so he could stop by as soon as Michael left with
Simon. Hez hated having to leave Savannah to face such a hard moment alone, but Judge O’Keefe’s order had been very clear:
Hez had to keep at least five hundred yards from Simon.
A minute passed since his text. Two minutes. Three. He called her, but it went straight to voicemail without ringing.
Could she and Simon still be walking the dogs along the old swamp road? Cell coverage was bad out there. Maybe that was the
problem.
He checked his watch: 6:40 p.m.—ten minutes after Michael was supposed to pick up Simon at Savannah’s cottage. She wouldn’t be late for that if she could help it. Missing a custody exchange would just give Michael an excuse to go back in front of Judge O’Keefe and ask for even more.
Hez frowned. Had Michael tried something? That made no sense—he was getting what he wanted: Simon. Still, the man was a violent
thug, and Hez wouldn’t put anything past him.
He called again—and again it went directly to voicemail. Dread coiled in his gut. Something had happened.
He put the truck in gear and drove toward Savannah’s home. He turned the corner onto her street and saw Michael’s black Denali
in her driveway. Michael stood beside it with his phone to his ear. He scowled and gesticulated with his free hand before
spotting Hez. He gestured for him to pull over.
Hez parked on the street in front of the cottage, mind whirring. Where were Savannah and Simon? Why was Michael still here?
Michael shoved his phone in his pocket and stomped over. “Where’s my grandson?” he demanded as Hez stepped down from the truck.
Hez shut the door. “What are you talking about?”
Michael’s face darkened and his eyes flashed. He jabbed a finger toward Hez’s face. “Do not play games with me! I was supposed
to pick up Simon at six thirty. Where is he? And where’s your Legare wife?”
Before Hez could respond, his phone rang. A picture of a cream-colored golden retriever appeared on the screen. The number
was blocked.
Michael stared at the phone. The fury vanished from his face and voice. He turned pale. “Put it on speaker.”
Hez complied. “This is Hez Webster.”
“If you want to see Savannah, Simon, or your dogs again, you will do exactly as I say.” The flat robotic voice indicated electronic
masking. “You have thirty-six hours to do two things. First, find and eliminate all copies of the database of materials you
stole from Hornbrook Finance. All copies—whether created by you or not. Second, find and eliminate whoever is blackmailing
Hornbrook.”
Hez’s pulse thundered in his ears. “If you hurt them, I’ll—”
“Thirty-six hours.”
The call ended.