Chapter 45
Wes drove faster than he should have.
The mountains blurred past outside the windshield while his mind kept working through what Calloway had told him.
He knew what that pattern looked like when it was aimed at someone.
He’d been watching it aimed at Rowan for days.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he called her again.
Again, the call went straight to voicemail.
The unease that had begun in Charlottesville grew heavier with every passing mile.
He tried once more.
Nothing.
Finally, Wes pulled up Caleb’s number. He didn’t want to get Caleb upset for no reason, but this very well might be a good reason.
Caleb answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
“No.” Wes switched lanes fast enough to earn an angry horn from the car behind him. “Where’s Rowan? Have you talked to her?”
“Hold on.” A paused sounded. Then, “Naomi and I just left the prison with Grace. I’m going to put you on speaker—Naomi’s here.” His voice shifted slightly. “I actually just got off the phone with Millie. She mentioned Rowan headed to my mom’s house to grab something she left there.”
Wes’s stomach tightened. “Did she say what?”
“Something from her childhood room, I think.” Caleb’s tone had already changed, sharpened. “I didn’t think it was a great idea. I wish she’d taken someone with her.”
“Is she answering the phone for you?” Wes asked.
“I haven’t tried yet. Naomi is calling her right now.” A brief silence stretched across the line. Wes counted the seconds without meaning to. Then Caleb came back. “Voicemail.”
His throat tightened.
“Listen, Calloway found another death connected to Vince.” Wes kept his voice even. “Someone who’d been planning to expose him. Vince spent weeks building a public narrative around the guy first. He said he was unstable, erratic, falling apart. Then he died.”
“What?” Caleb said.
Wes pushed the accelerator harder. “Caleb, I think that’s Vince’s pattern. I think that’s what he’s been doing to Rowan.”
“We’ve got to get in touch with her,” Naomi said.
“I know.” Wes kept his eyes on the road.
“We’re turning around and heading to my mom’s house now.” Caleb’s voice had gone quiet.
“I’m already on my way.” He ended the call and drove faster, the mountains pressing in on either side as the road wound deeper toward Ruby’s house.
Please let me get there in time.
The prayer rose up from somewhere beneath the urgency and the fear and the tactical part of his mind that was already running through what he might find when he arrived.
Please, God. Just let me get there in time.
Before Rowan and Lauren could talk anymore, a creak sounded in the distance.
They both froze.
Lauren’s eyes snapped toward the hallway. “You heard that too?”
Rowan nodded, and she peered around the corner.
“Stay here,” she whispered.
“Rowan—”
“I know this house.” She kept her voice steady even though her pulse had begun climbing in a way that was hard to ignore. “Every creak and corner of it. Just stay put.”
She stepped into the hallway.
The bathroom door stood open, exactly as she’d left it. Her mom’s bedroom sat dark at the far end, undisturbed. The closet door was shut. The staircase stood empty.
Nothing.
She exhaled slowly and stood still for a moment, listening.
The house gave nothing back.
Old houses settled. That was all this was. Rowan was wound too tight after everything, hearing threats in ordinary sounds.
She turned back toward the kitchen.
That’s when she froze.
The back door stood wide open.
It took her brain a half second too long to process what she was seeing. The door that had been closed and locked when she arrived now hanging ajar, afternoon light cutting a thin line across the kitchen floor.
The next instant, a hand closed around her arm and yanked her sideways.
Her shoulder hit the wall, and pain flared white and immediate.
A forearm pressed across her collarbone, pinning her back against a hard chest before she could do anything but gasp.
“Don’t.” The man’s voice was quiet and completely unhurried. “Just don’t.”
She twisted instinctively.
The man’s grip tightened without effort, like he’d expected exactly that.
“Lauren—” Her voice came out thin.
“She’s fine.” He turned her toward the kitchen. “See for yourself.”
He walked her forward, and the kitchen came into view.
Lauren stood near the far counter, her arms wrapped around herself and her face pale as paper.
She wasn’t restrained. She wasn’t hurt.
She wasn’t surprised either.
Rowan’s breath caught at that realization.
A second man stood behind Lauren, one hand resting casually on the counter.
Rowan’s skin crawled. “Lauren?”
Lauren’s eyes found Rowan’s.
It wasn’t just fear there, but something layered underneath it. Something that looked uncomfortably like guilt.
“I’m sorry,” Lauren whispered. “They said they’d kill him if I didn’t—” Her voice broke. “Ben. They have Ben.”
The first man steered Rowan toward a kitchen chair and pressed down on her shoulders until she sat.
She didn’t fight it. Her mind moved too fast to settle on any one response.
“I did what you asked.” Lauren turned toward the second man, her voice cracking at the edges. “I brought her here. Now please—you said you’d let him go.”
The second man said nothing.
The first crouched in front of Rowan, unhurried, professional. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced an orange prescription bottle, setting it on the table between them with a small, deliberate click.
These guys were professionals. She knew it in her gut.
There was no way they’d leave any witnesses.
Rowan stared at it.
Her name stared back on the label.
It was her anxiety prescription—the one she’d had filled six weeks ago. The ones she’d gotten because of Vince.
Vince had known she took those pills. He’d seen her taking one once.
But where . . . ?
Her purse, she realized. Someone must have taken them from her purse when she wasn’t looking. Maybe while she was in town on one of her visits. It was the only thing that made sense.
Now the bottle sat on her mother’s kitchen table like a prop in a scene that had already been written.
The man reached into his other pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper, smoothing it flat on the table beside the bottle.
“What’s that?” Rowan asked, though some cold part of her already understood.
“We need you to write something for us,” the man said.
At once it hit her what he was implying.
A suicide note. This man wanted her to write a suicide note.
Her lungs tightened until she could hardly breathe.
No one would believe that, right? Not her family. Not Wes.
Or would they?
She pressed her eyes closed.
She didn’t know for sure.
“The world already thinks you’re unstable,” the man said. “We’re not changing the story. We’re just finishing it.”
“No.” The word came out steadier than she felt.
He didn’t react. “Ms. King, those pills are yours. The note will match your handwriting. Your family thinks you went for a drive alone. There’s no version of this where it doesn’t work.”
Lauren made a desperate, muffled sound, her hand pressed over her mouth. Her eyes had gone glassy with tears she was clearly fighting to hold back.
The second man shifted behind her.
“She brought you here because we gave her no choice.” The first man followed Rowan’s gaze toward Lauren. “Her boyfriend is alive right now because she cooperated. That can change.” He slid the pen across the table toward Rowan. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. For either of them.”
Rowan looked at the pen.
Then she looked at Lauren, whose guilt-ridden eyes begged her for something—forgiveness maybe, or a miracle, or both.
Then she looked at the prescription bottle sitting between them.
Her hands shook. She pressed them flat against her thighs so the men couldn’t see.
She needed to buy time.
Needed to find a way to call for help.
Her life depended on using every last one of her skills right now to get out of this situation.