“She’s not a Jane Doe, Detective; she’s Griffin Calloway’s wife. We just matched her blood to hospital records. She’s also pregnant. The man you have in custody shot and kidnapped her.”
“If we can confirm her identity,” the detective says, “I’ll process our perp. Right now, he’s giving a bullshit story about cleaning his rifle and her borrowing the diamonds from a friend for some party they attended.” There's a note of triumph in his tone. He and the other officers leave.
The nurse comes in and wraps a blood pressure sleeve around my arm. I look at her, but I still really don’t have much energy to speak.
“How are you feeling?” she asks quietly.
I just shake my head and frown.
“You’ve been through a lot, my dear. Septic shock is very dangerous; we almost lost you. The doctor will be in shortly to explain what’s happening.” Her smile is wide and kind; she has a shock of red hair and it’s cut at an odd angle, but all I really see is her bright, beautiful face.
I must doze off for a while because I wake up to a booming voice and open my eyes to find a man in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and dark eyes staring at me. Though he looks nothing like Griffin, his authoritative presence and maturity remind me of him, and I’m hit with a wave of sadness.
“Mrs. Calloway, I’m Dr. Patel. We need to take you in for surgery to clean up your shoulder. First, I need you to confirm your name for me, please.” His voice is rushed and clipped, yet he has a calm, powerful demeanor.
“Selena Calloway,” I say.
Though I won’t be Selena Calloway for long.
“Thank you.” He writes something in his notes.
“The baby?” I’m able to rasp out.
“We’ll check on that. I need you to continue to rest. We’ll perform the surgery and keep you here for a few days to monitor your recovery. We’ve notified your husband. Do you want to speak to him before we take you back?”
Griffin? Did he want to talk to me?
29
GRIFFIN
I haven’t slept in three days. I only just showered and changed my clothes after wearing my tuxedo for twenty-four hours straight. The police have no leads. Landon Drake’s prints match those taken from the door, but the trail went cold after he sold his car and vanished. There is no information on his current vehicle. He’s likely staying off the grid, hiding under a hoodie at cash-only gas stations.
Landon’s parents admit that after Selena ran, he had a psychotic break. It worsened when he recognized her on a famous influencer’s page and realized she married me. They aren’t surprised he abducted her, and though they promise he won’t hurt her, I have my doubts. What happened in the car park was violent and cruel. The fact that federal agents haven’t found them yet scares the shit out of me.
I am calling in all my contacts. I’ll find him on my own. I have a name, and that’s all I need. I’ve unleashed hackers, private investigators, and straight-up criminals. He has her concealed, but I will find him, and when I do, I will ensure he doesn’t get another minute on this earth.
During all of this, Carl Besheir—the bastard—calls wanting to set up a meeting. I tell him to fuck off and I call Massimo immediately. I’m shaky and frantic, but I need the Society's help to find Selena and shut Carl down for good.
“Griffin, to what do I owe this honor?” Massimo asks. It is his way of sayingWhy the fuck are you calling me?
“Carl needs to be dismembered,” I say, not mincing words. “He’s trying to weaponize Beckett’s research and wants me tolock him into risky contracts. Find something on him and have him taken out.”
“I’m aware of Carl’s business,” Massimo replies. “However, he does the things no one else likes to do—arranges clean-ups and disappearances. Unless you want to take up the banner?”
I hate it when he challenges me. “With all due respect, sir... no. Just understand how dangerous he is.” I take a breath, my voice cracking. “I need your help. My wife has been abducted. I want her captor found and eliminated.”
Selena will hate me for this, but I don’t care. I need Landon out of our lives forever.
As I’m on the phone, an unknown caller dials in.
“I’ll look into it,” Massimo says. “And I’m sorry about your wife. You and Beckett need to keep better track of your women.” He hangs up.
I answer the unknown call without hesitation. “Calloway.”
“Griffin Calloway? This is Detective Mason with the Indiana police,” a calm, clipped voice says. “Is your wife, Selena Calloway, missing?”
My blood turns to ice. “Where is she? Is she alive?”
