Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
But the second I climb out of the truck and cross the street, something feels wrong. There’s a stillness in the air, a heaviness that presses against my chest. The sign on Slice Slice Baby’s door says “Closed,” but the door itself is slightly ajar, letting a wedge of dim light spill onto the sidewalk. Aubree wouldn’t leave it like that, especially not after everything that’s happened. Anxiety sparks, rattling my nerves as I push the door open with more force than necessary.
“Aubree?” I call out, voice echoing eerily in the empty shop. Nothing. Not even the hum of ovens or the clatter of pans. I step inside, searching the rows of booths and tables. The overhead lights are half off, leaving the front area in deep shadow. My pulse quickens.
The shop is deserted—no Stuart, no Aubree, no Lisa. Just silence and the faint smell of fresh dough. I cross to the counter, scanning behind it. The place is deserted. My stomach knots.
She’s not here.
I fight the flare of panic. This is the middle of Nashville, not the middle of nowhere. She could’ve run an errand, right? But she’d never leave the front door wide open, especially not after the break-in and all the threats. Something’s off. All my instincts scream at me that something is very, very wrong.
I grab my phone, calling her, and I hear the distant sound of her ringtone. I move in the direction of it, spotting her keys, phone, and purse on the back table. Something’s not right.
I hang up, and punch in Dean’s number. He answers on the second ring. “Boone?” he says, sounding mildly surprised. “Aren’t you supposed to be—?”
“Dean,” I interrupt, my voice raw. “I’m at Aubree’s shop. She’s gone. The door’s wide open, nobody’s here. I need you to pull up the security feeds. Now.”
“What?” Dean’s tone snaps to attention, urgent. “You sure she’s not just in the back?”
“I checked. She’s left all her things. Her phone. Purse. Keys. Place is empty.” My gaze roves around, searching for any clue or sign of a fight. I grab her keys. “This isn’t normal, Dean. She wouldn’t just up and leave everything like this.”
There’s a flurry of keyboard clacks on his end, the sound of Dean working fast. “Hold on… I’m logging into the cameras. We left the system in place after all that stuff with Charles. The main feed… oh, shit.” His voice drops as he watches something I can’t see yet. “Boone, the feed is glitchy, but it looks like someone came in after closing time.”
My mouth goes dry. “Aubree was alone, wasn’t she? Her mother probably left her alone knowing I’d be here soon. Goddamn it.” I step around the counter, nearly tripping over a stool that’s on its side. Fear spikes through me—why is it knocked over?
“Yeah,” Dean says, still working. “I see a figure… big guy, maybe. He’s… pulling her toward the back. That’s all I can see from this angle.”
A spike of anger and dread slams into my gut, so strong it almost makes me dizzy. “Dean, run the back alley camera. Maybe we got a better angle out there.”
“On it,” he mutters. More typing. A few seconds pass in brutal silence. “Got it. He’s pushing her into a white van. No plate visible from this angle, though. Dammit, it’s too dark.”
I grip my phone, knuckles whitening. I pace behind the counter, stepping through the flour scattered on the floor. “Dean,” I say, forcing my voice to steady. “Send me that footage. Now.”
“Sending,” he confirms, keys clacking. “Done. Pulling it up on my end, too. Trying to zoom in on the face. Wait… I recognize him from the first night at her shop, back when we were watching her more closely. Wasn’t he a regular?”
My lips peel back in a snarl. “Earl,” I grind out. It’s like a punch to the gut, remembering that unassuming older guy who always seemed so friendly. We never had any reason to suspect him. But now, everything clicks into place. “He must have been behind some of this. Maybe he acted alone, or maybe not. But obviously, he got to her.”
Dean’s breath hisses through the line. “I’m tapping into the city’s traffic cams next. Gonna see if we can track that van. You stay put, or—actually, do what you gotta do. But keep me updated. We’ll find her, Boone.”
“Goddamn right we will,” I bark, ending the call. The rage swirling inside me is almost suffocating. I failed her. I was supposed to protect her, but I was holed up in Saint Pierce, tying up loose ends. If I’d come sooner—if I’d called more often—maybe I would’ve known something was wrong.
I swallow down the guilt and force myself to function. This is a crisis, and in a crisis, you don’t shut down, you act. My phone buzzes with an incoming file from Dean—the security footage. I slip behind the counter and open it, watching with a sinking heart as the grainy image shows Earl dragging Aubree, her legs trying to kick, her face a mask of terror. The clip ends with him shoving her into a van. I freeze the frame, trying to glean any detail—a partial license plate, a unique dent, something. But it’s dark, and his van looks painfully generic.