“Nah. Just stay on the line.” His voice drops low. “You gotta stay there, man. We don’t know where this chick went.”
He’s right. And that’s the problem.
“Downstairs is pretty sparse,” he narrates. “Lots of journals. Books. She’s got a medical fetish.”
“She’s in pharmaceutical sales,” I say. “Did you turn on the light?”
“Nope. Using my phone.”
Pages rustle. His breath shifts.
“Fridge is barren.”
“Fits,” I say. “Stella said she practically lives at Richard’s.”
“I’m going up the stairs.”
I start pacing the length of the foyer, the dread settling slow and heavy. This is wrong. He needs backup. I should be there. Every instinct I have is screaming that this is a trap waiting to spring.
I flip open my laptop on the hallway console.
“I’m letting the team know where you are.”
“Copy. Tell them I’m solo.”
That’s the part I hate.
I type fast:
* * *
Jake at Jessica’s townhome. Back door open. No sign of her. He’s inside—no backup.
* * *
Quinn’s reply is instant.
* * *
Quinn: Where are you?
Me: Alicia’s. Jessica’s whereabouts unknown.
* * *
I grit my teeth. I hate being benched. Hate that Jake might be walking into something we haven’t mapped.
* * *
Quinn: Gabe’s on his way.
Me: Jake’s using his phone as a light.
* * *
“Her room now,” Jake says, his voice tight through the earbud connection. “Looks like she left in a hurry. Drawers open. Toiletries missing.”
A cold certainty settles in my gut.