Dear Wife(74)

“I’m working on it.”

In other words, no. Chief shakes his head. “This McAdams guy is a doctor, Marcus. He’s smart, respected. Determined as hell. He’s not some guy off the street.”

I bite down on a scowl, clear my expression. “I’m aware of that, sir.”

“He knows his rights, and he’s not playing around. He’s got a shitload of folks on Twitter who think you’re incompetent or at the very least, dragging your feet. I don’t know if you’ve seen his feed, but they’re killing you over there.”

Oh, I’ve seen his feed, all right. It’s just as infuriating as the guy is in real life, a constantly rolling wall of melodramatic wails into the void. One second he’s pissed, then next he’s blubbering like a baby. His emotions bounce around like a dented Ping-Pong ball, with no clue where it’s going to land next. The tweets have a constant theme, though, and that’s me. I’m obstinate, thickheaded, on the wrong path. Last time I scrolled through it, I punched my fist through a wall.

“He wants you off the case. He’s threatening to sue, and he’s got the money and the pull to make good on his threats.”

“Is that what this is about? You want me off the case?”

There’s a long beat of silence—too long—and I try not to squirm like a two-bit criminal brought in for questioning, even though that’s exactly how I feel. That’s my chair he’s sitting in, my desk he’s plunked his Popeye forearms on. My case he’s grilling me on. I can’t have him take it away.

My desk phone lights up, the ring shrill in the silent room, and a burst of electricity surges under my skin. Jade, calling me from downstairs.

Chief Eubanks ignores the phone. “If you want to pass this case to another detective—”

“I don’t.”

“If you’ve got other things you need to deal with or need some cooling-down time—”

“I don’t,” I say through gritted teeth because one time, just once, I lose my shit with some asshole pointing a cell phone camera at my head, and the Chief is still bringing it up, two years later.

The phone rings for a third time, and he reaches for his glasses, folding them up and slipping them into a pocket on his shirt.

“I want a report. I want to know what leads you are following, what people you are talking to, what you are doing with my hard-earned tax dollars to find Sabine Hardison. And I want it on my desk by the end of the day.”

The Chief leaves, and I sit here, breathing through my rage. Fucking Jeffrey Hardison and his fucking attorney. Fucking Doctor McAsshole. The footsteps fade into silence in the hall, and I punch in the number for Jade. “Please tell me you have good news.”

“That depends. Atlanta’s kind of a hike, and I hear it’s really hot this time of year.” She snorts, but I’m in no mood for joking around.

I shove the door closed with a foot and edge around my desk, holding the cord high so it doesn’t snag. “Tell me.”

“Okay, so I found a cluster of check-ins, and from a whole slew of IP addresses. They’re kind of all over the place, which means they’re most likely coming from a cell phone.”

“Any of the burner numbers?”

“I can’t see the cell phone numbers, only the IP of the carrier. And a carrier’s IP address changes all the time, depending on the cell phone tower it’s pinging. The only exception is when the cell hops onto a Wi-Fi network, and then it becomes static.”

My head is pounding. I yank open my top drawer, reach in for the bottle of Excedrin—industrial-sized, because of all the moments like this one. I don’t give a shit about IPs and cell phone towers, only where they point. “So, did you find her or not?”

“Hold your horses, Sparky, I’m getting there. I’ve got two addresses for you, each of them with dozens of hits, both of them coming from inside Atlanta city limits. One for a boardinghouse on English Street, and the other for a church.”

She rattles off the addresses, and I scribble them onto the pad.

“And the burner numbers?” The manager gave me four, all of which I passed on to Jade less than an hour ago.

“Those are up next. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something. Now go out there and get her.”

I’m already on my feet, already thinking about the fastest route to the airport. “On my way.”



BETH

I am packed and banging on Miss Sally’s door in record time, by my calculations a mere twenty-seven minutes after kneeing Erwin Four in the balls. The whole time I was hurtling through rush hour traffic to Morgan House and stuffing my belongings into a bag, I was doing the math. Four minutes, maybe five for the little shit to pull himself off the floor, double that for him to sound the alarm... He’ll spew lies and false accusations, which means I need to hurry.

I lift my fist and bang on the door again.

“Hang on, hang on, I’m coming,” Miss Sally’s voice says through the wood. She pulls the door open with a smile. “Hey, sugar, what are you—uh-oh. Why are you so sweaty?”

I don’t really wait for her to invite me in; I wriggle my way past.

“And how come you’re panting? Did you run all the way here?” She shuts the door behind me, flipping the lock with a metallic clunk, and the noise sends a sliver of panic up my chest. My gaze flicks to the windows, two paned sheets of glass plenty big enough for an escape.