I put the phone back to my ear. “When was the last time?—”
“About eleven-thirty,” Richard repeats.
Noah’s already moving—retrieving his phone, touching the screen, eyes flicking to every window.
And that’s when the thought strikes like a blade: What if this isn’t about Richard? What if Dorian was right?
A rush of cold sweeps through me. “Christ,” I whisper. “What if they took her to get to me?”
Noah’s gaze snaps to mine—steady, calm, lethal focus. “We’ll find her.”
The quiet house hums with the weight of that promise.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Alicia
The sound that wakes Richard’s quiet neighborhood isn’t a scream or a siren.
It’s the slam of his front door as he rushes outside when I pull up.
Noah’s out of the car before I am—steady, commanding, impossible to ignore.
“Richard, where was she last seen?”
Cold November air claws through my clothes. My hands shake as I shove my arms into my coat, barely feeling the zipper catch my chin. The wind carries the scent of wood smoke and damp leaves, the world suddenly sharper, meaner.
Jessica stumbles out behind him, in slippers, phone clutched white-knuckled in her hand. “No one knows anything,” she says, voice high with panic. “We’ve called every friend.”
I cross the lawn, my pulse pounding so hard my vision pulses with it. “She wouldn’t just vanish. She’d text me.”
“Then where is she?” Richard snaps, fear and fury indistinguishable in his voice.
Noah steps between us, a wall of calm in the chaos. “We’ll find her,” he says. “There’s a tracker in her backpack. She’s close—signal’s weak, but I’ve got a ping.”
“Do it faster,” Richard growls.
“At first I thought it was your house,” Noah says, thumb gliding over his phone, “but it’s just off the property. Not exact.”
While he studies the screen, I ask, “Are you sure she wasn’t angry? Have you checked the treehouse?”
“Of course I’ve fucking checked the treehouse.”
My chest tightens. I can’t seem to pull in a full breath. Noah’s brow furrows, jaw tightening by degrees. Then his gaze lifts, sharp and certain. “Signal’s weak but moving—east, within a mile.”
He turns to me. “Keys.”
I toss them before he finishes the word. He catches them one-handed, already heading for the car. I’m right behind him.
The drive blurs.
Every street looks the same—brick Colonials, leafless trees, people walking dogs who have no idea my world is splitting apart. The heater blasts, but my fingers stay ice-cold.
“She’s smart,” Noah says, eyes scanning the sidewalks and mirrors. “She knows how to stay visible. We’ll find her.”
I nod, though my throat’s too tight for words. Find her. The phrase repeats like a heartbeat. Images flash—headlines, police tape, Dorian’s warning looping like a curse. They’ll find another way to reach you.