“Hunter!” I call out. Barely a whisper.
And then it’s dark.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
HUNTER
“What’s the matter?”Ace grunts from beside me.
I’m staring at a list of names. Neighbours Ace and Colt have questioned in Red Creek. Running plates on cars that went by Ashley’s house in the days prior.
There’s a fucking gap. A gap that I’m hoping Romeo is about to provide Colten with any minute. Because I am out of ideas.
I lean back in my chair and try to call Beau again. No answer.
Weird. He never mentioned he had anything else to do today. Jerry, our ranch hand, is keeping Wyatt busy in the stables for now while we work. But I need Beau to come back and take over.
And Lola never texted me back. She read it almost instantly.
Nothing.
“Lola didn’t reply to my text,” I say bluntly, trying to hide the hurt in my voice.
“I’m sure she will once she lands. How long is left on her flight?” Ace asks, looking up over his laptop.
I sigh. I’m assuming she managed to get on the flight that took off at eight a.m. So now? She probably has an hour left.
I pull up the flight tracker and check. Even that raises my anxiety. Not being on our private jet. But, Lola lived her life just fine before me. Jetting across the globe. Beau would have made sure she got off fine at the airport. He might be grumpy, but he’s not mean.
Even if he doesn’t like our marriage, he wouldn’t hurt me or her.
“An hour,” I confirm, setting my phone face down on the dining table.
Ace glances down at his phone.
“Colten just texted. He said he’s sending over some numbers Romeo managed to get off that guy's phone. Shall I start calling them? He said he’s got some footage, but he’s checking the legal records of a property that might be linked to them here in New Falls.”
I shrug.
“I bet most of them are burners. Yeah. Worth a shot,” I tell him.
And then I pour another whiskey. I don’t care what time it is. I need to numb this pain.
The answer has to be in this data somewhere.
But, why didn’t Lola text me back…
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
LOLA
I don’t knowhow long I’ve been out.
Minutes. Hours. I blink. The room sharpens slowly. Cream leather couch. Glass coffee table. Art on the walls. Everything is clean and almost deliberately impressive.
I tug at my wrists. But the rope doesn’t budge; it bites into the skin when I twist. My ankles are bound to the chair legs, too.
My bag is gone. My shoes are gone. My rings—fuck.