"Detective Paul Hargrove, who is assisting the Maddox family in their search, declined to comment on whether the warehouse connection represents a break in the case. However, he did confirm that investigators are treating Riley's disappearance as suspicious and are pursuing all leads."
The screen shifts to a photo of Riley, the same one her family's been circulating for days. She's smiling in the picture, and she looks happy and carefree. Nothing like the woman sitting in my spare bedroom right now, hunched over a laptop, rebuilding my financial records under duress.
I grab the remote and turn off the television because I can't take another second of their droning.
I've been so focused on getting my own ass out of hot water, I didn't stop to think about how quickly things would heat up when her family noticed her really missing. Of course they’d report her missing. Of course they'd be looking for her. Just like she said—she has people who love her.
But the authorities know about the warehouse now and that her phone was definitely there. There's no way to explain it away. And it won't take them long to figure out that the shell companies that own that property are controlled specifically by the pharmaceutical conglomerate owned by Sal and managed by me. Which means they'll come snooping around and find me. And they'll want to search my properties and maybe even my home.
And they'll find Riley.
I walk down the hallway and push open the door to the spare bedroom. Riley's sitting at a folding table I brought in for her to have some other place to work than in the living room. She's been restless watching the neighbors out the front window and all their Christmas festivities, and her compromise, because I refused to hang "glittery lights" out front, was to hibernate in this dark room to finish her work.
But we can't stay here anymore. If a change of scenery is what she wants, then that's what I'll give her. And it serves a dual purpose.
"Pack your things," I say.
She stops typing and turns to look at me. "What?"
"Everything you brought. Pack it. We're leaving in five minutes."
Her expression shifts from confusion to alarm. "Leaving? Why? What happened?"
"I don't have time to explain. Just do it."
"Rafe, you can't just?—"
"Five minutes, Riley. Or we can just leave it behind." The news always tells us what's happening late, sometimes hours late. If they know the strong connection between Riley's phone and the warehouse, it's only a matter of time before they're knocking here, and she can't be here when they come.
She stares at me for a moment, then stands and walks to the closet. She pulls out the duffel bag she arrived with and starts shoving clothes into it with every bit of attitude I know resides in her. I watch her for a moment, then turn and walk back to my room.
I grab my own bag from the closet and fill it with essentials. Clothes, cash, an extra gun. I don't know how long we'll be gone, but I know we can't stay here. The house is compromised now. We need a safer place for her to work.
Riley meets me in the hallway, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her face pale. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe," I grunt, and I lead her out to the car and toss both bags into the trunk. I don't even wait around or take time to call Feodor to drive us. We might not have the luxury.
She climbs into the passenger seat without arguing, and I slide behind the wheel, starting the engine. The tires crunch over the layer of snow in the driveway as I back out and head toward the street.
The roads are slick, the snow falling steadily now, and I keep my eyes on the rearview mirror as much as the road ahead. My instincts are screaming at me, telling me something is wrong, and I've learned not to ignore that feeling. It's not normal for me to be so on edge, either, and when I see headlights in the rearview, my gut twists. I know they're following us.
At first, I think it's just another car. Someone heading home after work or running errands. But the car stays too close, matching my speed, following every turn I make. And it's not a cop car either, unless they're under cover. It looks more like the crappy shit box Caruso drives.
Just leave it to him to finally start connecting things enough to come looking, and right when I'm already feeling the devil breathing down my neck.
"We're being followed," I tell her, but I don't take my eyes off the road. This will take all of my concentration. I'm not usually the one evading a tail. Feodor normally does this for me. But I'm all we've got and I have to keep Riley safe.
Riley twists in her seat to look out the back window. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
I take a sudden right turn, cutting down a side street, and the car behind us follows. Riley's body sways and she grips my bicep and the door handle to steady herself as I slam on the accelerator and floor it.
"Hold on," I say.
I take another turn, this one sharper, and the tires skid slightly on the snow-covered pavement. Riley grabs the handle above the door now, her knuckles going white, and I hear her whimpering, "What the fuck…"
The car behind us accelerates, closing the gap, and I see the front bumper flash in the rearview mirror. They're not just following us. They're chasing us. And in my mirror I can see a man I knowis part of the Caruso family. His eyes flash at me just before his front bumper smashes into my rear.
