Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Then I drove.
Orlando to Branford feels like a long-ass haul when you're running from a murderer and trying not to breathe too loudly. I stopped only when I had to for coffee, fuel, and a lot of praying the transmission would hold out.
I didn't call anyone. I didn't even text Sasha, even though she was probably wondering where the hell I was. I hadn't exactly kept in touch while I was buried in this job, and now I was going to have to explain at some point why that radio silence came with life-threatening baggage.
I figured that once I got to the right place, I'd find a way to get a message to her and my cousins. That wasn't the priority right now, though, staying alive was.
It'd occurred to me as I was packing that I knew one person who might—big emphasis on the might—be able to help me, Sasha's brother-in-law, Webb.
He'd always been the quiet one, the fixer. The guy who disappeared when everything got too loud if he wasn't at the center of why it was so loud. We didn't know each other well, not really, just enough to exchange a nod at family events and maybe a half-smile if the pie was good. But something told me he'd understand, or, if nothing else, he'd be too annoyed to leave me alone until I told him everything. Either way, I'd end up safe. Maybe.
Hopefully.
I glanced at the new phone lying blank on the seat beside me, and my fingers itched to power it on, to call someone, anyone, but I didn't. Instead, I kept driving. To Webb's brother's ranch, where I really hoped he was, and to whatever came next.
I'd also like to point out that I prayed like hell I'd live long enough to regret my life choices and taking this job.
Chapter Three
Webb
The drive from Branford to Orlando usually took about two and a half hours. I had made the trip several times, so I knew the locations of gas stations, which backroads could save me ten minutes, and which exits to avoid if I wanted to protect my car's suspension. But that drive felt longer as every mile down I-75 carried the weight of what could be happening with Gabby.
I’d barely spoken to her in months. The last time we had been in the same room was at a family barbecue with my sister-in-law Sasha’s family. Even then, we hadn’t spoken very much. I think I scared her, although I couldn’t figure out why. I was a fucking delight to be around…sometimes. That day, she'd been polite, but if I thought back on it, she wasn't really her usual self, considering how quiet she'd been and how often I'd seen her on her phone. However, it wasn't anything that’d raise alarm bells, seeing as how she was the kind of woman who always looked like she was about to say something but thought better of it. A little too sweet for this world—or at least that’s what I’d always figured.
Apparently, I didn’t know shit because now she’d disappeared off radar, wasn’t answering her phone, and Sasha—who rarely panicked—was begging me to find her.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, cursing the heavy traffic on the highway. Gainesville was behind me, but Orlando still felt out of reach. The sky was beginning to cloud over with the sticky, end-of-day humidity, and my shirt clung to my back as if it were trying to suffocate me.
Needing to be as proactive as possible, I hit the hands-free button on my truck’s dash. “Call Matty.”
The phone rang twice before his gravel-and-coffee voice answered. “Well, damn. Look who remembered I exist.”
“I need a favor,” I clipped, skipping the formalities.
“You always do. Are you drunk or bleeding?”
“Neither. Not yet.” I could be honest with both myself and him about that. The likelihood of me ending up bleeding, even from a cat scratch, was high—I just had that kind of luck. “I’m looking for someone. Her name is Gabriella Dempsey, and she’s Jackson’s wife, Sasha’s cousin. She’s missing, and I have a bad feeling about it.”
There was a pause, but I could hear him typing already.
“Okay, you know how this works. What do you have? Plates, address, burner phone, photo, blood sample—?”
“Nothing concrete, just that she might be in trouble, seeing as how she's disappeared and no one can get in touch with her, likely scared and definitely hiding from someone dangerous. I’m heading to Orlando now to investigate. I thought your crew in Gainesville might have heard something.”
“You’re lucky I like you,” he grunted. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“I owe you dinner and a beer for doing this for me, man.”
“You’ll owe me a boat,” he sighed, and he wasn't wrong. Matty had done a lot for me over the years.
He hung up the phone, and I focused back on the road. The closer I got to Orlando on the Turnpike, the worse the traffic became, which was totally predictable. Every local I knew complained about the same issues: rental cars cutting across three lanes as if they were in a Fast & Furious spin-off, GPS devices giving confusing directions, and tourists driving as though turn signals were optional accessories.