CHAPTER 27
Cross
ALEX WAKES TO THE ringing of his phone. He rolls over in bed as Bree stirs beside him.
“Is that yours?” she mumbles.
“Yes,” he says, picking the phone up.NO CALLER ID. It’s 6:01 a.m. A call at this hour usually means either very good or very bad news.
Alex answers, feeling a surge of adrenaline race through his body. “Hello?”
“Dr. Cross? This is Drake Cannon, from the FBI field office in Charlotte.”
Alex sits straight up in bed and puts the call on speaker. Bree turns on a lamp and moves closer.
“What do you have, Drake?” asks Alex.
“I’m sorry to call so early, but I wanted to update you as soon as I could. I just got an advance on a report from the Chapel Hill PD.We’ve been able to establish that there’s been no activity on your son’s phone for the past four days,” says Cannon, “but before it was shut off, cell tower pings determined where he was. Or at least where his phone was.”
“And?” Alex asks as Bree squeezes his arm. “Where was it?”
“About five miles south of his apartment,” says Cannon, “at a place called the Mason Farm Biological Reserve. A few hundred acres of protected forest, wetlands, and bogs. The last distinct location we’ve been able to fix is just off of Barbee Chapel Hill Road, near the Pearson Trailhead.”
Bree grabs her own phone off the nightstand and enters the location in Google Maps. A second later she calls, “Got it!”
“Drake,” says Alex. “We can’t thank you enough.”
“I promise you, I’m doing everything I can on my end. I’ll call you the minute we learn anything else.”
Alex thanks him again, then disconnects and throws back the covers. He looks across the room.
Bree is already dressed.
CHAPTER 28
Sampson
THE TINY GUEST BEDROOM at the Cross house is as cozy as I remember it, even if my feet now stick out over the end of the bed. I spent a lot of nights in this room as a kid, taking refuge from my broken family. Whenever I visit, it still feels like home.
Willow was asleep when I arrived last night, but she’s wide-awake now. I was hoping to sleep in, but my daughter has other ideas.
“Daddy! Wake up! Nana Mama made breakfast!”
I let Willow nearly drag me out of bed and down to the kitchen, where the aromas from Nana Mama’s cooking instantly make my mouth water and my stomach rumble.
I sit down at the round kitchen table. Willow sits right next to me, elbow to elbow. Nana Mama comes over with two large plates and sets them down.
Sitting in front of me is a stack of blueberry pancakes, thick and fluffy, with six bacon slices cooked crisp, just the way I like it.There’s also a bowl of sliced melon and a big tumbler of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
Nana Mama hugs me around my shoulders. “I’m counting on you to be a hungry man, John Sampson, so don’t disappoint me and leave anything behind.”
I take a sip of juice and put my napkin on my lap. “Thanks, Nana. This looks great.”
“I promise to clean my plate!” says Willow, digging into her slightly smaller portions.
Nana Mama walks to the counter and returns with a steaming cup of coffee. “Your favorite,” she says. “Jamaican Blue.”
“You’re spoiling me,” I tell her, covering my pancakes with maple syrup—the real stuff from a farm in Vermont.
