38. Milo
THIRTY-EIGHT
MILO
Cell phones are needy bastards.
Kill the signal and a phone doesn’t sit there patiently waiting for service to come back.
It panics. It hunts. It throws itself at any known and available network like a drunk at closing time, desperate to connect to anything warm and willing.
Which is why the device in my backpack—a custom-built rig the size of a paperback novel—is the most effective tool I own.
Flip the switch, and every phone within forty feet loses its carrier signal.
My rig then broadcasts a stronger “twin” signal that tricks the phone into treating it like a tower it already trusts. Everything looks normal on their end.
My dashboard shows them all connected to KittenNet.
The network gets me through the door. The exploit suite does the rest—temporary mirrors pulling messages, photos, app data, browsing history, and saved passwords. All of it copied and cataloged before your beer gets warm.
I’m at a high-top near the back of Sully’s Bar & Grill, nursing a Coke I ordered fourteen minutes ago and haven’t touched.
The backpack is on the floor between my feet, the rig humming quietly under the zipper.
My laptop is open and angled toward the wall, but I’m working from my phone through a separate hardened connection.
Several phones have connected to KittenNet in the last six minutes. But I’m only interested in three—Chris Walton’s iPhone 14, Darren Ricks’s Samsung Galaxy, and Jake Petersen’s iPhone 12, which has fourteen unread texts from his mom.
For God’s sake, Jake, call your mother.
The data is already streaming. I can see the packets flowing on my screen, each phone dumping its contents like a confession.
I’ve got a script running that sorts everything by category and timestamps, flagging anything connected to Brock Davis, Sage Adams, Tyler Kavanagh, or any of the other keywords I’ve been tracking for months.
But right now my focus is on the show playing out twenty feet in front of me. Because Holden just walked through the door.
He doesn’t look like a man about to interrogate three potential accomplices to a sex criminal. He looks like a detective doing follow-up. His jacket is on, badge visible, as he scans the room. He walks over with the unhurried pace of a man picking up dry cleaning.
This is the quiet follow-up ordered after I went back through Brock’s dog-training chat and connected it to Tyler’s crew.
The Lodge proved men like them were already organizing online, and we suspected they’d moved somewhere more secure.
Now we need one of these idiots to show us where.
Tyler gave us Chris, Darren, and Jake. I pulled their numbers from the old data and found their regular Thursday-night booth at Sully’s.
We considered doing to them what we did to Tyler—picking them up and beating the shit out of them—but panic is more useful when the target doesn’t know what you already suspect. Holden rattles the tree. I watch what falls out.
I’m not saying I’m brilliant, but if all evidence points to me, I’ll claim the title.
“Chris Walton?”
Chris looks up from his beer. He’s mid-twenties, broad-shouldered, with the kind of thick neck that comes from either lifting weights or a genetic predisposition to looking like a thumb. His eyes narrow. “Who’s asking?”
Holden taps his badge. “Detective Cross. I’m following up with some questions about a friend of yours, Brock Davis. From my understanding, he left town after a house party back in May.”
“I already talked to cops about this.”
“Some information has come to light. New situation. Different questions.” Holden pulls up a chair without being invited and sits at the end of their booth, blocking their exit. “Won’t take long. Just need to fill in some blanks.”
Darren Ricks is across from Chris. Skinnier, dark-haired, the kind of face that fades into the background at parties. He’s got his phone on the table in front of him. His thumbs stopped moving the second Holden sat down. Good. That means KittenNet has had uninterrupted access for at least a minute.
Give me all the data, baby!
Jake Petersen is beside Darren. Compact. Dark hair. Hawaiian shirt over a—wait, is that a turtleneck?
Nope. Just a crew neck. False alarm—my mom would never be interested in a guy that young.
I hope . . . Shit.
Anyway, Jake hasn’t looked up from his beer since Holden arrived.
His body language says he’d rather be anywhere else.
His phone is in his jacket pocket. KittenNet’s got it, but the signal is weaker through the fabric.
I make a note to prioritize Chris and Darren’s data if Jake’s dump is incomplete.
“When was the last time any of you heard from Brock?” Holden asks. He pulls a notebook from his jacket.
Chris leans back. Arms crossed. The defensive posture of a man who thinks he’s smarter than the cop in front of him, which is hilarious because Chris Walton’s IQ is equal to the temperature on the coldest day of winter.
“Months ago. He ghosted everyone. We’ve been telling cops this since day one.”
“Right. And nothing seemed off before that? No change in behavior? New people in his life? Arguments with anyone?”
“Brock was Brock.” Chris shrugs. “He liked to party. He liked women. He liked being the center of attention. One day he was here, next day his car was gone and his drawers were cleared out.”
Holden writes something. I know he’s not actually writing anything useful. It’s the appearance of the pen that matters.
“What about Tyler Kavanagh?” Holden asks. “He and Brock were close?”
Chris and Darren exchange a look. I catch it because I’m watching their faces on my phone through the bar’s security camera, which I tapped into nine minutes ago because Sully’s password is, and I wish I was joking, Sully123.
“Tyler’s been through it,” Darren says. His voice is quieter than Chris’s. More measured. “His girlfriend dumped him. He’s been spiraling. We’re all worried about him.”
“Worried enough to do anything about it?”
“What do you mean?”
Holden holds Darren’s gaze. “Tyler’s been named as a person of interest in connection to another case we think might be linked to this.
He’s also been exhibiting some concerning behavior.
Threats, intimidation. The kind of thing that makes us look at things from a new angle.
What started as a friend who ghosted could turn into something more complicated.
Something that connects all of your names. ”
Chris stiffens. “Tyler hasn’t done anything. None of us have. He’s just upset about Brock. We all are.”
Holden doesn’t reply immediately. He lets the silence stretch, weaponizing the ambient noise of the bar against them. It’s a beautiful tactic. People absolutely despise silence. They feel the overwhelming biological urge to fill it, usually with their own guilt.
I watch the security feed on my phone. Darren’s jaw clenches. Jake’s shoulders inch so high they’re practically earmuffs.
“I’m glad to hear you’re all upstanding citizens,” Holden finally says. He glances down at his book like he’s checking notes. “That means you shouldn’t have any issues speaking with me.” He shifts back in his seat. “Why don’t you tell me about the woman Brock Davis was seen leaving the party with?”
“What about her?” Chris’s jaw tightens. Darren’s eyes drop to the table. Jake, who hasn’t spoken once, takes a long pull of his beer and stares at the wall.
“You tell me,” Holden says.
“Sage Adams. Tyler’s mentioned her,” Chris admits. “He thinks she knows where Brock went. That’s not a crime.”
“Mentioning someone isn’t. Showing up at their apartment with friends and making threats is.”
“That’s not what— look, we spoke about going to see her. Just to talk. That’s all. Nobody threatened anyone.”
“Three men showing up at a woman’s apartment to ‘talk.’ You hear how that sounds?”
Chris’s face reddens. “We didn’t go through with it.”
“Why not?”
“Because Tyler got jumped and beat to shit by someone. Guy’s face is still fucked, and now he barely leaves his house.” Chris’s eyes are hard now. He’s pissed, but underneath the anger is fear. Not of Holden. But of whoever messed up Tyler’s pretty face.
I grin quietly to myself. Why, that’d be me and my wonderful friend, Micah, you dickless piece of shit. Want a demonstration?
“Did he say who jumped him?” Holden asks.
Chris shrugs. “If he knows, he’s not telling. He just came back looking like he’d been through a meat grinder and suddenly Sage Adams was a no-go zone. Said we weren’t to go near her.”
Holden nods slowly, writing in his notebook. “And none of you have had any contact with Ms. Adams since? Directly or otherwise?”
“No,” all three say. Almost in unison.
“What about online? Texts? Social media?”
“No.”
“Tell me about the group chats.”
Chris hesitates. Half a beat. Nothing a normal person would catch. But Holden isn’t a normal person and neither am I, and we both clock it at the same time.
“What group chat?”
Holden gestures at them with the end of his pen. “The one you’re all in together.”
“Sure. Yeah. We’ve got a group chat,” Chris says, recovering. “Everyone does. It’s nothing. Memes. Sports. Bullshit.”
“Brock in it?”
“He was. Before he left.”
“Anyone else? Anyone I might not know about?”
“Like who?”
“Tyler. Other friends who were at that party—anyone the police haven’t questioned.”
Chris leans forward. His arms uncross and his palms hit the table, beer sloshing. “Look, you want to find Brock? Talk to that girl. Sage. She was all over him the night he disappeared. He goes with her then disappears immediately after? You can’t tell me that’s not suspicious.”
Holden doesn’t blink. “I’m not trying to find Brock. We already know he’s in Santa Cruz with some girl he met at a bar. I’m here to talk about Brock’s associates and why they’re so interested in some girl he walked home from a party.”
Chris opens his mouth. Darren puts a hand on his arm. Chris shuts up.
Good boy, Darren. Keep your attack dog on its leash.