Chapter 17
Seventeen
Pain radiated through Emery's skull in waves, each one making her stomach lurch. Her eyes felt glued shut, and when she finally forced them open, the world swam in sickening circles.
She blinked.
It wasn’t dark. But it wasn’t bright. And she was moving. In a vehicle. The engine hummed beneath her, vibrations traveling through her body where it pressed against carpet that smelled like mildew and motor oil.
She tried to move her hands and couldn't. Her wrists were bound behind her back, zip ties cutting into skin. Her ankles were tied too—she could feel the bite of plastic when she tried to shift her legs.
Panic flooded through her, sharp and immediate. Where was she? How did she—
The man. The shadow in the vineyard. Arms around her. Something hitting her head.
Oh God.
Emery wiggled, struggling against her restraints, fighting to get upright. Her shoulders screamed in protest, muscles cramping from being twisted behind her. But she managed to roll onto her side, then wedge herself up against the side of the vehicle.
She could see through to the front seat. She was in an SUV, and the man had shoved her in the cargo area with all the seats folded down. The sun’s rays barely peeked over the horizon as night gave way to morning.
A man sat in the driver's seat—with a baseball cap. The same cap she’d seen that night she went out with Ashley. The night she’d been hit by a car.
It couldn’t be.
"Where are you taking me?" Her voice came out hoarse, raw. "What do you want?"
"Be quiet." The man turned his head. The cap had the same logo. It was distinctive. And she remembered it.
"Please, just tell me what's going on. I don't understand—"
"I said, be quiet. Or I'll shut you up, again. Your choice."
Emery's head throbbed where he'd hit her. Bile rose in her throat at the threat of being knocked unconscious again. She bit her lip, tasting blood, and tried to think through the panic.
They were on a highway. She glanced out the window, looking for signs. There was one up ahead. They were headed north. She shifted her gaze toward the dashboard. It was 5:32. It hadn’t been that long since she’d been snatched.
Would Devon even know she was gone?
A phone rang—the driver's phone, lighting up where it sat in a cup holder. He grabbed it, answered with a clipped, "What?"
Emery strained to hear the other side of the conversation but couldn't make out any words. Just muffled sound, the cadence of someone—a female—speaking urgently.
"No." The driver's voice rose, agitated. "I'm not going to meet you. I have to get out of town. This whole thing's blown up—"
More muffled speaking on the phone.
“I can’t dump her here. I can’t even do it, California.” He was getting angrier, his free hand gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. “Stopping is too risky, and I’m not doing it for any amount—”
The voice on the other end cut him off.
"Fine." The driver bit the word off. “But you’re going to have to pay me double, and you better bring it.”
He ended the call and tossed the phone back into the cup holder.
Emery's heart hammered against her ribs.
They were going to kill her. Take her somewhere remote and kill her.
"Please." The word came out small, desperate. "Please, I'll give you whatever you want. Money. I have money—my boyfriend will pay whatever you ask. Just let me go."
"Your boyfriend." The man laughed, harsh and without humor. "Yeah, I'm sure he'd pay. Right before he killed me himself. No thanks."
"Then what do you want? Why are you doing this?"
"I was paid to do a job. Nothing personal." The man reached into the passenger seat, and when his hand came back, he was holding a gun. He didn't point it at her—just held it where she could see it, the metal catching ambient light from passing cars.
"Hush," he said quietly. "Or I'll hush you myself. We clear?"
Emery looked at the door, then shifted her gaze to the dashboard, contemplating what might happen if she managed to open that door and try to jump at seventy miles an hour.
Probably not a good idea.
"Good." He set the gun on the passenger seat within easy reach. "Now shut up, and let me drive."
The car merged onto what felt like an off-ramp, the smooth highway giving way to rougher road. They were leaving the interstate. Going somewhere more isolated.
Somewhere no one would hear her scream.
Emery pressed her back against the side of the cargo area, her bound hands aching, her head throbbing, terror making it hard to breathe. She thought of Devon's face, the way he'd kissed her forehead before leaving for the vineyard—the promise she'd made to stay safe, to keep the doors locked.
She'd broken that promise by opening the door. By thinking the shadow was him.
And now she was going to die because of it.
The backyard felt too small for the rage building in Devon's chest. It expanded like a balloon, growing to full capacity and dangerously beyond, close to the breaking point.
He paced from the deck to the edge of the lawn and back again, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline.
Every thirty seconds, he checked it. No calls.
No texts. No miraculous email from Emery saying this was all a mistake.
Just silence.
The sun had climbed higher, warming the October morning, but Devon felt cold all the way through to his bones like ice was forming in his bloodstream.
The back door opened, and Bryson stepped out, his expression careful.
"Mom made breakfast," he said. "There's food on the table if you want—"
"I can't eat."
"Devon—"
"I can't sit in there and eat pancakes while Emery's out there with whoever took her." Devon glanced at the time. “It’s been almost an hour, and I can't pretend everything's normal. I can't—"
"Nobody's pretending anything's normal." Bryson moved closer, his voice calm and presence as big as their bond. They’d been best friends since they were kids. Of course, there’d been brotherly rivalry, but they were always there for each other. Always willing to be the pillar of strength for the other. Bryson was the one person he could always count on not to judge or scold but who’d also be brutally honest when he needed it the most. “You need to eat. You need to do something other than concentrate on something you can’t control.”
"What I need is to be out there looking for her."
"The police are looking. Sandys got every unit in the valley searching. She’s called state, and I think she even called in the Feds. Roadblocks on every major route out of town and the valley. They're doing everything—"
"It's not enough.” Devon hurled the words at his brother like a grenade. "She's been gone for an hour, and the cops don’t have a single clue. And we're sitting here doing nothing."
"We're doing what we can. Staying here in case she comes back or contacts us.” Bryson stared at him with sheer determination and resolve. "I get it. I understand why you feel powerless. But running around without a plan isn't going to help her."
Devon wanted to argue. Wanted to get in his truck and drive every road in the valley until he found her. But he knew Bryson was right. Knew that leaving meant possibly missing a call, missing information, missing something critical.
"Just come inside," Bryson said. “It’s not good for you to be out here, alone. Come be with family.”
"I need a few more minutes." Devon turned away, looking out at the winery. "I'll be along in a bit. I just need to clear my head."
Bryson was quiet for a moment, then sighed. "Okay. But if you're not inside in fifteen minutes, I'm coming back out."
After he left, Devon resumed pacing. He kept replaying the scene—the open door, the dropped mug, blood on the grass.
He snapped his head up at the sound of tires on gravel. A car was coming up the driveway.
Sandy? Please let it be Sandy with news.
Devon raced around the side of the house, his heart hammering. But the vehicle pulling to a stop wasn't Sandy's patrol car.
It was Callie Callaway's silver Mercedes.
Devon reached for his phone, pulling it out to text his family. But before he could type a word, Callie was out of the car, striding toward him in designer jeans and a cashmere sweater as if this were a social call.
A million things ran through his brain like an electric current. But only one popped like a firecracker.
Why wasn’t Callie in custody? Or at the very least, being detained for questioning. So many things pointed to her. She’d been jealous the last time they dated. And while he’d never experienced her vindictiveness, he knew other people who had.
"What are you doing here?" Devon demanded. Heat filled his muscles. It worked its way through his body like a drug.
"I heard about Emery." Callie tilted her head and gave him a half smile, as if she cared. As if that concerned expression meant something. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to check on you."
“What are you talking about?” He heaved in a breath and took a step back.
“She left town. I know you must be devastated." Callie moved closer, invading his space. "I saw her, actually. Early this morning. She stopped for coffee. She looked upset. I asked her if she was okay, and she told me she didn’t want to talk about it, and that she was leaving—for good.”
Devon went very still. "You saw her."
"Yes. I was getting pastries and coffee better than I can brew for the harvest crew.” Callie inched closer and touched his arm. "I'm here for you. If you need anything at all—"
"You’re lying.” The words came out low, harsh, and dangerous. “You didn’t see her. And if you did, then you did something to her. Which is it?”
Callie's eyes widened. "What? I don't know what you're talking about. I just stopped by because I was worried about you."
"Bullshit."
"We might be business adversaries, but we've been friends." Her voice took on a wounded quality. "I care about you. I always have. And I'm sorry Emery's gone, but maybe it's for the best—"
"I’m calling the police." He pulled out his cell. His finger hovered over the screen.
Callie backed away, her expression shifting from concerned to cold in seconds. “I don’t even know who you are, anymore.” She climbed into her Mercedes, slammed the door, and peeled out of the driveway fast enough to spray gravel.
He strode toward the house, yanking open the back door. He swiped on the screen, pulling up Sandy’s personal cell, but then realized maybe he should call 9-1-1.
The family was gathered in the kitchen—Walter, Brea, Riley, Ashley, Hasley, Michael, Bryson. All of them turned when he entered.
"What was that about?" Walter asked. "We heard voices."
"Callie just showed up."
"What?" Brea stood. "What did she want?"
"To tell me she's sorry Emery's gone. That she saw her leaving town this morning." Devon's hands curled into fists.
"She's trying to find a way into your life," Michael said, his voice hard. "Why did you let her leave?”
Before Devon could respond that he hadn’t and was about to call the authorities, Sandy’s patrol car pulled into the driveway.
Devon was out the door before she'd fully stopped, meeting her halfway across the lawn. "Tell me you found something. Tell me you pulled Callie over, and someone is taking her in.”
“She’s not getting far,” Sandy said. “I’ve got people on her, don’t worry.”
“I’m beyond worried.” Devon ran his fingers through his hair.
“I came by to tell you the IT department got back to me about that fake email." Sandy pulled out her notebook. "It was sent from the Callaway estate. Same IP address as the other fake emails sent using Gabe's name."
"So, it was Callie."
"Or someone at the estate." Sandy looked past him toward the house. "Is Gabe here? His wife said he was helping with the investigation."
"He's inside."
"I need to update him. And everyone else." Sandy headed for the house, Devon following. Once inside, she addressed the room. "We're bringing in Winston and Callie Callaway for formal questioning. The evidence is strong enough for arrest warrants on conspiracy charges."
"Callie was just here," Devon said. "Five minutes ago. She drove up, told me she saw Emery leaving town."
Sandy's expression darkened. "She's fleeing. Or about to. We need to move now." She keyed her radio, calling for backup. "All units, suspect Callie Callaway just spotted at the Boone residence. Consider her a flight risk. Proceed with arrest."
"There's more," Sandy continued. "We got a hit on that partial plate from the witness who saw the car near your property this morning. Vehicle's registered to Jim Webb. He's been staying at the Valley Inn for the past week."
"Who is he?" Walter asked.
"That's what we're going to find out. Deputies are heading to the Valley Inn to pick him up now." Sandy looked at Devon. "I know you want to be out there. But the best thing you can do is stay here. If Emery gets free, if she calls, you need to be available."
"She's been gone for over an hour,” Devon said, his voice breaking on the words.
"I know. And we're doing everything we can to find her." Sandy gave him a weak smile. "Hang tight. I'll update you as soon as I know anything."
After she left, the kitchen fell into heavy silence. Everyone standing around, helpless, waiting for news that might never come.
Devon sank into a chair, his head in his hands. Callie showing up here, taunting him. Some stranger named Jim hitting her with his car—fake emails from the Callaway estate.
They had pieces. But they didn't have Emery.
And every minute that passed made it less likely they'd get her back alive.