So, my hands shake as I reach for the hem of Jacob’s nightshirt. I tell myself its survival. Just survival. Not submission. My skin crawls under his stare as each layer peels away.
Jackson’s never looks away for a second. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t leer. He studies. Like he’s mapping out where to cut first. And when the last piece of fabric hits the floor, he speaks.
“Perfect,” he says softly. “Just the way I pictured.”
Chapter 30
Find Me Anywhere
Jacob
The station reeks of burnt coffee and sweat. Too bright. Too loud. Phones ringing, printers stuttering, radios spitting static. Every sound chews through my skull.
Constance and Adelaide are at the hospital. Navarro and Maddox, along with some Broadachre badges, have gone to see them. To see if they can dig out any information I might have missed.
I’ve been staring at the same bank of CCTV monitors for an hour, and I still can’t see her. Nothing but headlights and shadows. SUVs. Pickups. Same body shapes, same goddamn plates that come up clean. Too clean. Stolen. Swapped. Scrubbed.
Jackson Moore didn’t claw his way out of a maximum-security cell just to leave me breadcrumbs.
“Roll back camera six,” I bark, throat raw.
Carter’s at the keyboard. His hands don’t shake, but his jaw does. He hasn’t looked me in the eye once since we walked in here. He pulls the footage back, frame by frame. Grainy, washed-out, some gas station outside town. An SUV pulling through. License plate crystal clear. Useless. It belongs to a grandma three counties over who hasn’t left her damn driveway in a year.
I slam my fist into the table. The monitor’s flicker. My knuckles split open again, blood slick against the steel edge.
“Fuck!”
“Sheriff—” Carter starts, but I turn so fast he shuts up.
There are three others in the room. Young deputies. Fresh. Faces pale like they’ve seen ghosts just being in here with me. Maybe they have.
“Run the plate against out-of-state databases,” I snarl.
“We already did,” one of them says quietly. “Nothing. It’s clean.”
Of course it is. Of course it fucking is.
I throw my chair back, rise to my feet and pace back and forth. The walls are closing in, suffocating me with the hum of machines and the stench of failure. Every second she’s out there with him—every second—it’s a knife turning deeper. I see her face, her hair, the first time I saw her in her parents’ garden. That smile that ruined me before I even knew her name. And now she’s with him. With Jackson. My tears sting but they don’t fall. Not here. Not in front of them.
I spin and sweep the desk clear with both arms. Paper, coffee cups, radios, files—everything crashes to the floor. The monitors rattle, one topples, screen splintering into spiderweb glass.
“Sheriff!” Carter barks.
I grab the edge of the next desk and flip it, wood splintering, metal legs screeching against tile. One of the young ones jolts back so fast he trips over his own chair.
“WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?” I roar, voice tearing out of me. “WHERE THE FUCK DID HE TAKE HER?”
Nobody answers.
Because they don’t know.
Because Jackson will always be five steps ahead.
Because I should’ve seen this coming.
I drive my fist into the drywall. It caves, dust spilling down, blood smearing into white. I don’t stop. I punch again, again, until my knuckles are pulp and the hole’s wide enough to shove my whole arm through.
“Sheriff—stop,” Carter snaps, grabbing at my shoulder. I whirl, grab his shirtfront, slam him into the wall so hard his head bouncesoff the plaster. His eyes widen but he doesn’t raise a hand. Doesn’t fight me.
