Chapter 6
six
Jackson
Time has stopped behaving like something linear and has instead settled into something heavier, something that presses rather than moves, because I’m no longer tracking it by minutes or by anything external, but by how many hours have passed since she was taken and how little we have to show for it.
I don’t need to check the clock to know where we are.
I know the number.
I’ve been counting it without meaning to, feeling it settle deeper into my chest every time another hour slips past without anything changing, without anything breaking open into something we can use.
It’s been almost twenty-eight hours.
And the longer that number sits there, the harder it becomes to push away what comes with it, the quiet, creeping thought that something might already have gone too far, that every hour we lose is something we don’t get back.
I lean forward slightly, my elbows resting on my knees for a second before I push back into the table again, forcing my attention to stay on the screen in front of me even as something tighter starts to build underneath it.
The footage plays again.
Same angle.
Same stretch of driveway.
Same moment she steps into frame.
I watch it all the way through, not because I expect it to change but because stopping feels worse, because stopping means sitting in the space where my head starts filling in everything I don’t want to think about.
Nothing shifts.
Nothing gives.
The street footage hasn’t helped either. Cars pass, people move through frame, everything continues exactly as it should, completely disconnected from what actually happened in that space, and every time I run through it again it feels more useless than the last.
My jaw tightens as I scrub the timeline back and start again, my focus narrowing harder with each pass, because the alternative is letting the thought fully form that she’s out there somewhere with someone who took her, who planned this, who had time to set it up and hasn’t rushed to return her.
The idea of that, of her in someone else’s space, someone else’s control, sits wrong in a way that makes my chest feel tight, like something is pressing in from the inside and not letting up.
Behind me, Christian’s voice cuts through the room, and this time I don’t have to force myself to pay attention because the shift in his tone is enough on its own.
“We’ve got one.”
Everything in me sharpens instantly, the tension redirecting in a way that almost feels like relief, because finally there’s something to move toward instead of sitting in this.
I turn.
Christian is already on the phone, his posture changing, his voice sharpening into something more precise as he listens.
“Yeah,” he says, pacing once. “Take him to the warehouse.”
Across the room, Elijah doesn’t hesitate. There’s no question, no discussion, just movement, the decision already made before anyone else can speak.
“I’m coming.”
Something in my chest tightens again, sharper this time, because if this is real, if this actually leads somewhere, then we might finally be able to do something that matters.
I push back slightly from the table, my attention flicking between them and the screens in front of me, caught for a second between staying here and tearing out the door with them, between continuing to pull this apart piece by piece and putting my hands on something that can actually break.
The decision doesn’t have time to settle.
A sound cuts through the room.
It’s small enough that I might have missed it if everything else wasn’t already stretched thin, but something about it lands wrong immediately, cutting through everything else and pulling my attention sideways.
I turn.
Zach is at the table, Lia’s phone still in his hand, but he’s gone completely still in a way that doesn’t look controlled, like something inside him has locked all at once and left him there, mid-breath.
The color drains from his face so quickly it hits something in my chest before I can even process it properly.
And then he makes a sound under his breath that doesn’t belong in the room.
“What is it?” I ask, already moving toward him, something tightening sharply in my chest, something that feels too close to dread.
He doesn’t answer straight away. His throat works, his eyes still fixed on the screen like he hasn’t fully processed what he’s seeing yet.
“It’s her.”
Everything in me drops.
“What?”
I don’t wait for anything else. I close the distance between us and take the phone from his hand, my fingers tightening around it before I even fully look at the screen, because some part of me already knows this isn’t going to be good.
The message is already open.
Unknown number.
A video.
My thumb presses into it before I can think about it, before I can prepare for whatever is about to come through.
It loads.
Lia is on the screen.
She’s lying on something hard, concrete from the look of it, her body still, her head turned slightly to the side, her hair spread out around her in a way that makes something in my chest twist hard and fast, because she’s not moving, she’s not reacting, and for a split second something darker tries to take hold, before I see her chest move, barely, just enough to tell me she’s breathing.
The breath I pull in after that is sharp and uneven, relief and something else colliding too fast to separate cleanly.
Then a hand moves into frame.
A man’s hand.
Slow.
Deliberate.
It brushes through her hair like he has the right to touch her, like he can take his time with it, like she’s something he can handle however he wants, and something in my stomach turns violently enough that I have to lock my jaw just to stop the reaction from showing.
My grip tightens around the phone hard enough that my fingers ache.
The message sits just beneath the video.
She’s in good hands now.
The words hit harder than anything else, because they’re wrong in a way that feels intentional, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly what he’s saying, and that he expects us to see it.
“Elijah.”
My voice comes out louder than I intend, already cutting across the room.
“Elijah.”
He stops mid-step and turns, and I don’t try to soften it.
“The kidnapper sent something.”
Everything in the room shifts instantly.
He crosses the space faster than I’ve seen him move outside of the ice, his focus locking onto the phone the second I hand it to him.
He watches it.
Once.
Completely still.
There’s no reaction at first, no visible shift, and for a second that stillness makes something in my chest tighten again, because it feels like everything is compressing inside him with nowhere to go.
Christian swears under his breath.
Lucian doesn’t say anything, his attention fixed entirely on Elijah.
Then it breaks.
Elijah’s fist drives into the wall beside him with enough force to crack the plaster instantly, the sound echoing through the apartment as dust falls in a fine spray across the floor, but he doesn’t stop there, the movement repeating, again and again, each impact heavier than the last as something inside him finally finds a direction to move in.
Blood marks the wall where his knuckles split, the white surface breaking under the force of it, fragments falling away with each hit.
“Elijah—” Christian starts.
He doesn’t stop.
Lucian steps in just enough to anchor the moment without physically interfering, his voice cutting through cleanly.
“Go with Christian,” he says. “Work the Vargas guy.”
Another impact lands.
Harder.
“I’ll get a trace running on the number.”
That’s what pulls him.
Direction.
Elijah drags in a breath that doesn’t sound steady, his chest rising sharply before he steps back from the wall, his hand flexing once like he’s testing it before he turns, already moving again, already redirecting the violence into something that can be used.
Christian follows him without hesitation.
The door closes behind them.
Zach disappears down the hallway without a word.
And suddenly, everything is quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that lets everything else creep in if I let it, if I stop moving, if I stop thinking about what needs to happen next and let my head go anywhere else.
I look down at the phone still in my hand, at the paused frame of her lying there, at the hand still caught in her hair, and something in my chest tightens again, not sharp this time, but steady, building, the panic sitting just under the surface now, closer than it was before.
Because now I’ve seen her.
Now I know where she is, not physically, not in any way that helps, but enough to make it real in a way it wasn’t before.
Enough to make every hour that’s passed feel heavier. Enough to make the next one feel worse.
I drag the video back to the beginning and press play again, slower this time, forcing my focus into something I can control, something I can take apart, because letting that panic take hold doesn’t get her back.
This does.
Somewhere in this, in the angle, in the lighting, in the sound, in something he didn’t think mattered, there’s a mistake.
There has to be.
He wanted us to see this.
He wanted to prove something.
Which means he left something behind.
My focus narrows completely as I start pulling it apart frame by frame, my breathing still not quite steady, my grip still too tight around the phone, but my attention locking into the only thing that makes sense right now.
Because I will find it.
I don’t care how long it takes, how many times I have to watch it, how deep I have to go into it to get there.
He wanted us to see this. And that means he gave me something to work with.
And when I find it, I’m not letting anyone else get to him first.