“Okay, well, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, then pulled her to him.
Alarmed, Cassidy tried to make her wooden limbs soften. She inhaled his clean laundry scent, but it did nothing to soothe her. Her bag had swung forward to tap against his side. She imagined him pulling out the notebook, his hurt expression transforming to disbelief, then anger.
“Okay,” she said, then stepped back, forcing her legs to move steadily while her brain demanded she run.
At the door to the security guard’s office, she looked back, but Bruce was halfway down the hall. Inside the office, she signed out in the ledger, then nodded at the officer glancing over from his computer.
Outside, the air tasted of wet grass—a sprinkler was spraying the section of lawn at the edge of the parking lot—and hot concrete. Her empty stomach roiled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten anything since her attempt at breakfast. But the discomfort faded to the background; her mind was working the next phase of her plan.
The wait for her ride felt interminable. Any minute, Bruce was going to come running from the building, shouting at her. Maybe even with his gun drawn. He would pluck the notebook from her bag and put her in cuffs, the look on his face at once furious and wounded.
Cassidy forced her mind to refocus. I can’t think about that.
By the time her ride glided to a stop at the curb, tears were blurring her eyes. Inside the safety of the car, she covered her face with her hands, unable to stop her sobs. Silently, the driver pulled onto the street.
Each mile seemed to make the pain in her chest harder to bear. Over and over she told herself that she had no choice.
She heard Preston Ford’s scolding in her mind. You’ve brought that on yourself, you know.
Before leaving Quinn’s apartment for the task force headquarters, she had made a plan. She definitely didn’t trust Preston Ford. There was nothing stopping him from taking the notebook without releasing Quinn. He could also decide to eliminate her altogether. She had imagined him leading her to Quinn’s location only to kill them both.
Her first option: find Quinn herself, before eight o’clock. The second: meet Preston Ford by his deadline but hide the notebook and only reveal its location when assured Quinn was safe. The third: give Preston Ford a fake notebook. She had already discarded this idea because it would take too long to copy Pete’s scrawled notes and masking her own handwriting would be nearly impossible. If she was in Seattle, she could have easily swapped one of Pete’s other notebooks for the one she took.
As she stepped from the car in front of Quinn’s apartment, she focused in on the first option: find him before eight o’clock. If that didn’t work, she would proceed to the second option, though where she would hide the notebook she didn’t know.
Her first order of business was to call her cell phone company. She and Quinn still shared a calling plan. At the time she set up her first account, it had made sense because she was moving out to go to UC Berkley, and Quinn was still only seventeen and couldn’t have a plan of his own. Since then it had just been easier to keep the same account.
Cassidy peeked into Quinn’s fridge while waiting for a representative to pick up. A half a loaf of bread, two apples, a collection of beers, a packet of pre-sliced cheese, and various condiments stared back at her.
The line chirped with a woman’s voice.
Cassidy tucked the phone into the crook of her shoulder while removing the bread and cheese. Trying not to sound impatient, she explained what she wanted while setting a frying pan on the stove and turning on the burner.
“Have you tried ‘Find My Phone’?” the operator asked.
Cassidy rolled her eyes. “Yes, but the phone must be turned off.” She quickly slapped together a cheese and bread sandwich, buttered both sides, and added it to the pan.
“I can give you the last phone number he called,” she said in a hopeful voice.
Cassidy had already looked this up. It was available online. But Quinn’s last dialed number she didn’t recognize, and matched several others she found in his record, most of them in the late evening—so, likely his girlfriend. Cassidy would only call her if necessary. The last thing she needed was the woman to panic or call the police. And because the call was made the night before Quinn was taken, it was extremely unlikely that she would have anything useful to add.
“Yes, I have that,” she explained. “I just need to know his last tower location and the radius.”
“That’s protected information,” the operator said. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said, her panic rising. “But here’s the deal. He’s my brother. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t life or death.” In the back of her nostrils, she smelled something burning.
The woman paused. “We normally need a police subpoena to share this information.”
“If I had time to get one, I would.” Cassidy gripped the phone. “He’s counting on me,” she said, breaking down as the image of Quinn bound and gagged in the chair returned to her mind. “I won’t survive without him,” she said, her voice pleading. If she couldn’t narrow it down, she wouldn’t find him in time. Which meant going to Preston Ford’s mansion and risking his life. And mine. “You have to help me.”
The woman inhaled a tight breath. “All right,” she said, tapping a set of keys. “I’ll text it to you.”
“Thank you,” Cassidy gasped, shutting her eyes tight.
“Good luck,” the operator said before the line clicked off.
Her screen lit up with an incoming text—a bunch of meaningless words and symbols followed by a set of numbers.
The rush of relief flooding through her made the room spin. She gripped the counter for support. It was then
