Clara and Trips’ phones are doing exactly as they’re supposed to, nibbling up data from the house and spitting it out for me. Most of it is useless. But hopefully, I’ll get access to the whole system in time for the next part of the plan. All I can do now is wait.
Unable to do what I really want—get Clara back in my arms and protect her from whatever the hell happened—I tug at a loose thread from the pedo ring, one that I can’t seem to unravel. GoldenRod69. A jackass’s name if ever I’ve seen one.
He’s been in multiple groups, nudging, commenting, occasionally inviting people into direct messaging him, but I can’t figure out who he is in real life. Finding him feels like scooping a fish out of a pond with my bare hands, only the fish might actually be an electric eel. At least, something about the man feels dangerous. At a loss with my usual methods, I’ve opted for more drastic measures. I’ve built a digital net, and after today, it’ll be fully active. If he logs into any of the share groups, I should have enough information to catch him, even with his excellent security.
Why I’m focusing on him, I don’t quite know. But he’d been in two of the groups that had Clara’s videos, and several othergroups I’ve found over the year as well. Leaving this last culprit unaddressed just doesn’t work for me.
I’m deep in the zone when the doorbell sounds. Feet pass my room and down the stairs, fast enough to tell me that Walker’s back, guilt knocking me out of my head.
Shit.
I was supposed to work on Jansen while he was gone.
I log off, grab my phone, and follow him. But waiting on the front porch is someone I wish wasn’t there.
Officer Tom Reed, in uniform blues.
My heart gets loud in my ears, my hand on the wall keeping me upright as I try to breathe through the panic, sweat coating me like I ran through a sprinkler. Walker glances at me, and then whatever mask he had on disappears, rushing to my side, encouraging me to sit on the stairs, my head between my knees.
Shiny black shoes follow him in, and I yell, wordless, terrified that a fucking cop is in the house.
Then the wood grain between my shoes takes my complete focus.
Chapter 65
Walker
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I growl, shoving the cop out our front door.
“He needs medical attention,” he retorts.
“He’s having a panic attack because not one, but two of your officers pointed fucking guns at him. For loose lug nuts. So get your uniformed ass out of my house.”
The cop throws his hands up, backing onto the porch, but not leaving as I rush to RJ, not knowing what to do. Dealing with his panic is entirely different than Clara’s. I can’t strip him naked, toss him in a bathtub, feed him, and kiss him until he’s better.
And he’s humming something between a yell and a cry, a keening noise that has goosebumps coating my arms.
“RJ, can you look at me?” I whisper, squatting in front of him.
He rocks, his hands deep in his hair, tugging like the pain is the only thing keeping him conscious.
“What do you need?” I ask instead.
“Gone,” he barks.
“He’s gone. He’s not here.”
His head sways from side to side in denial. “Not him. The memory, gone.”
Fuck. “If I could take it, I would. Do you want to go upstairs? Go to your room?”
“Can’t.”
The cop clears his throat, and I twist with a glare. He motions me over. I focus back on RJ. “Should I step back, give you space?”
He barely nods, so I back up onto the porch with the cop. I don’t close the door all the way, though. I don’t want to lose sight of RJ.
“Panic attacks suck,” the cop says.
