Chapter 25
Tate
The police put out an APB on Bridget as well as her alias, Siobhan.
I scoured every piece of security footage I could find from nearby businesses, and finally—finally—I discovered a camera aimed at the parking lot.
The footage showed Bridget shoving Stella into the trunk of a black sedan with rental plates.
My hands clenched into fists as I watched the feed. The casual efficiency of it. The way Stella’s body went limp, unresisting, clearly drugged out of her mind.
Unfortunately, the camera angle was too distant to capture the license plate. But it gave us something. A make. A model. A direction.
CCTV coverage grew sparse from there, the trail going cold within blocks. Vegas was full of blind spots if you knew where to find them, and Siobhan clearly did.
Bottom line: Siobhan was in the wind. Stella was missing. And I was falling apart from the sheer panic and the possibility of losing her.
I didn’t know exactly what Siobhan had planned, but I wasn’t going to sit around waiting to find out. Every minute that ticked by without answers was another minute Stella spent in the hands of a woman who’d been nursing a decade-long vendetta.
The police obtained a warrant for Siobhan’s apartment.
Inside, they found an empty bottle of Rohypnol in the bathroom trash, along with several drafted letters constructed from magazine cutouts—the same method used for the threats sent to the Haywards.
Her laptop sat on the kitchen counter, but the tech team hadn’t cracked the encryption yet, and I wasn’t allowed anywhere near it.
Jurisdictional bullshit. Necessary, but infuriating.
Something had to break. Every hour we didn’t know where Stella was, the likelihood increased that Siobhan would hurt her.
That was the logical endgame, wasn’t it?
Siobhan had lost her father. He’d died in prison because of Charles Hayward.
Now she was going to make Charles lose his daughter the same way.
Permanently.
I couldn’t let that happen. There had to be something I could do.
Oliver was recovering at the hospital, his system still flushing out the massive dose Siobhan had given him. She must have been guessing on the amount. He’d been completely incapacitated for hours, the medical staff working to stabilize him before the drugs could do permanent damage.
The moment he regained consciousness, I was there.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t give me much. That was the insidious nature of Rohypnol—it didn’t just incapacitate you, it erased your mind. Oliver’s memories cut off shortly after entering the club. Everything after that was a void.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse, frustration evident in every line of his face. “I’m trying to remember, but it’s just... nothing.”
Before I could respond, the door swung open and a disheveled man strode in—dark curling hair, tan skin, a wild look in his eyes. His gaze found Oliver immediately, relief flooding his features.
“Oli. Oh my God.”
I stepped aside, giving them space. The man crossed to the bed and took Oliver’s hand, their fingers intertwining with an intimacy that spoke of something far deeper than friendship.
This had to be Carl. The boyfriend. The local politician whose career concerns had necessitated the whole charade with Stella in the first place.
I let them have their moment, my mind already working.
A politician. Someone with media access. Someone people would listen to.
I walked back over. Carl was perched on the edge of Oliver’s bed, one hand still covering his, closer than they’d ever allow themselves to be if this weren’t a private room.
“Oliver.” I nodded at Carl. “I think there’s something you two could do for Stella.”
Both men looked up, wariness flickering across their faces.
“I know things are complicated,” I continued, meeting Carl’s gaze.
“But people are aware you and Oliver are friends. It wouldn’t seem strange for you to make a public statement—a favor for a friend whose girlfriend was kidnapped.
We need people to know what Siobhan looks like, just in case anyone sees, or has seen, her. ”
Carl paled slightly. “That’s—”
“If Oliver were really Stella’s boyfriend,” I cut in, keeping my voice even, “he would have been the one protecting her. Standing beside her. But he wasn’t, because this whole arrangement exists to protect you.
” I held Carl’s gaze steadily. “Do this one thing for her. No one’s going to assume anything they shouldn’t.
And frankly? It’ll look good for your upcoming campaign, stepping up in a crisis, advocating for a victim. ”
Oliver squeezed Carl’s hand. “He’s right. Could you? Please?”
Carl exhaled slowly, some of the color returning to his face. “If you really think it will help...”
“It will,” I said, relieved that he’d agreed. “You’re a public figure. People recognize you. Let’s use that to our advantage.”
Carl nodded, squaring his shoulders. “All right. Tell me what to say.”
* * *
The first few hours were critical. Every study on abductions said the same thing: the longer the victim remained missing, the worse the odds.
Sutton handled the Hayward family, which was a mercy. If I’d had to stand in that house and listen to Charles imply that I could have prevented this—when he was the one who’d demanded I be removed from Stella’s detail—I might have done something I’d regret.
I was not going to be held responsible for their decisions, but I was going to do everything in my power now to find Stella and bring her home safely.
Carl made his statement from a hospital conference room, cameras capturing his earnest expression as he spoke about the distressing attack on two close friends.
He talked about violence against women, about community vigilance, about the importance of speaking up.
He managed to weave in a few references to his political platform—I expected nothing less from a politician—but the core message was clear: if anyone had seen Siobhan or Stella, if anyone recognized the car, they needed to come forward.
The network flashed photos of Siobhan as well as the make and model of the rental sedan.
Calls started flooding in almost immediately. Most were dead ends. Well-meaning people who’d seen a redhead somewhere, a black car anywhere, their certainty crumbling under basic questioning. I worked through them methodically, crossing off leads, trying not to let despair take root.
Then one call stood out.
“Hi.” The woman’s voice was young, slightly nervous. “You said to report anything about the woman in the photograph? Um, this might not be anything, but I recognized her. And the name. She rented a car from the place where I work a few days ago.”
I straightened. “Go on.”
“I remember her because she paid in cash. We don’t get that very often.”
She gave me the license plate number. I immediately relayed it to the police, who added the information to the APB. But I knew it wasn’t enough. Siobhan could have switched plates by now. Could have ditched the car entirely. Stella didn’t have time for us to wait for a lucky break.
I needed more eyes. More people searching.
And then it hit me. Stella’s social media. She had over a hundred thousand followers, many of them fiercely loyal, and many who lived in Vegas. And I had access to all her accounts.
I pulled up her profiles and uploaded the clip of Carl’s statement. Then I recorded my own video, holding my phone steady despite the tremor in my hands.
“Hey, guys. Some of you might recognize me—I modeled a few outfits for Stella a while back. What you don’t know is that I’m actually her bodyguard.
For weeks now, Stella’s family has been receiving threats from an unknown individual.
Today, we identified who that person is.
” I paused, swallowing hard. “And she’s taken Stella. ”
I held up a printout showing Siobhan’s face, the car, the plate number.
“This is what we’re looking for. If anyone has seen this woman, this vehicle, anything—please come forward.
Time is critical.” My voice cracked slightly, and I didn’t bother hiding it.
“If you care about Stella’s work, if you’ve ever supported her dreams, if she’s ever inspired you—she needs you now. Help me bring her home safely.”
I posted it before I could second-guess myself.
The parasocial nature of social media could be a curse—obsessive fans, boundary violations, the illusion of intimacy with strangers. But right now, that same intensity might be a blessing.
It might be the one thing that saved Stella’s life.