Kim stomped on the gas and made an abrupt turn in front of the car sitting next to her at the light. The driver hit the brakes and horn but she barreled on, heading for the bridge that led to the beach.
I have to see Joshy. I have to get him back.
At the next light she fumbled for her phone and plugged in the address she’d scrawled on that scrap of paper. She knew the way. The streets weren’t difficult to navigate once you were on the island — there weren’t that many of them.
Kim drove over the bridge and turned onto the street where the Bennetts lived. She slowed the moment she made the left so it wouldn’t look strange when she slowed in front of the Bennetts’ house. She passed a few parked cars, her eyes locked on the police cruiser sitting outside the Bennetts’ address. Thanks to the hedge wall she couldn’t see much, but the low, decorative gate had the right address bolted to its bars.
She strained, trying to see anything. No officers sat in the cruiser sitting outside.
They had to be inside.
Give me a glimpse. Give me a peek at Josh Jr. to let me know he’s there and he’s alright.
As her minivan crept past the house, Mason screamed.
Kim almost jerked the wheel directly into the police cruiser. Panicked, she hit the gas and passed the house.
She drove a few streets away and pulled to the curb, sobbing.
“Why? Why couldn’t you just let me see if he was there?” she screamed at the baby behind her.
Mason settled. When she turned she could have sworn he was smiling.
Kim swallowed.
You’re the angel of revenge.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Charlotte heard a rattling noise and opened her eyes. The room was dark and it took her a moment to realize where she was.
Loggerhead Inn. Right.
Her legs curled like question marks to make room for a sleeping dog not there, and then she stretched to give her knees a break. A peek at her watch told her it was three-thirty in the morning.
She groaned. Way too early to wake.
No wonder I feel like my brain is full of wadded paper towels.
Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she sat up.
Something felt different. Something different had woken her. Over the past two nights she’d heard boats motoring down the Intracoastal, and the occasional whistle of what she guessed was some sort of cargo train, but something about this awakening felt different.
Beside her, her phone glowed.
Ah. Phone.
She picked it up and saw two texts from the mysterious Hunter.
Hunter, my butt.
The woman on the paddleboard was Siofra.
She felt it in the very marrow of her bones.
Though the only photo she’d ever seen of Siofra hailed from two decades earlier, the woman bore an uncanny resemblance to her own mother, whom she’d seen in her forties.
Besides, who else would work the baby-napping case and case the Inn?
Hunter was a striking beauty, even with her long dark hair pulled into a ponytail and not a pat of makeup on her face. Still, the lines near her eyes told Charlotte she had to be at least forty-five, which put her at the right age. She was in great shape, though. As she’d paddled away, Charlotte had watched the muscles in her arms and back flex.
She had to be some sort of athlete.
Did she run away to join the Olympic team?
It had killed Charlotte to not be able to burst into the Inn and tell Angelina she thought she’d met Siofra. For one, Angelina was the only person—well, the only conscious person—who could positively identify her. But another nugget kept her from telling Angelina all.
She found it odd Hunter had chosen to talk to her. Why would she risk her cover?
Did she know I’m her niece before I told her? Or was it a coincidence?
And now here the woman was again, texting her pre-dawn.
Almost pushy.
Charlotte needed time to find out what Hunter was up to without Angelina scaring her away. She didn’t get the feeling Angelina would be able to sit tight and keep her mouth shut. If Hunter was as savvy as Angelina implied, Charlotte guessed her aunt would be long gone before Angelina caught her.
Charlotte took a moment to silently vow to let Angelina know about ‘Hunter’ before Siofra went missing again.
I’ll tell her today.
Maybe tomorrow.
Charlotte read Hunter’s first text.
I’m doing the hospital search.
Huh? Now? She’s decided three-thirty a.m. was a great time to grill nurses for information about a blind baby?
I guess hospitals are open twenty-four-seven.
Apparently, so were Hunter’s eyes.
Maybe early was a good time to talk to the nurses. They’d either be tired from a long shift or tired from waking up too early. They might be happy to talk about something other than late night trauma victims or the long work day ahead of them.
Or maybe Hunter was just an early riser and had already started planning her day.
Charlotte read the next text.
That means you do the surveillance.
She frowned. And just like that, Hunter was her boss, assigning her a job for the day. They’d discussed two plans and somehow she’d drawn the short stick.
How come she gets to do the fun thing and I have to watch the Bennetts’ house for regretful kidnappers?
Charlotte looked at her watch again. Does she mean now? Would the kidnapper drive by the house at night?
Maybe. If the napper couldn’t sleep, ruing the day she swapped her own
