The tavern loomed ahead, its lights low but still on. Music drifted faintly through the walls—country twang, laughter, the sound of people pretending nothing was wrong.
Thomas slowed.
“She’s not here,” muttered Rick from the passenger seat, his breath fogging the window. “We already checked her place. In the city, she must have gone somewhere else.”
Thomas didn’t answer.
Rick talked too much when he was nervous.
“She wouldn’t just leave,” Rick continued. “Her dad—”
“She didn’t leave,” Thomas said calmly.
“But,,,”
“Rick, shut the fuck up.”
Thomas parked a block away and cut the engine. The silence pressed in immediately. No wind. No dogs barking. No cars.
Just wrongness.
He stepped out and adjusted his jacket, smoothing it down like he was heading into a meeting instead of stalking a town. His boots made almost no sound on the pavement. Rick and the other two men followed, spreading out the way Thomas had taught them.
Not a group.
A net.
They moved past darkened storefronts and houses with curtains drawn tight. Thomas walked slowly and deliberately, letting his eyes adjust and his instincts speak.
Rylie was good at routines.
Too good.
She walked the same routes. Locked doors the same way. Left lights on in certain rooms because she didn’t like shadows. That predictability had been comforting once.
Now it was a problem.
They stopped in front of her father’s house.
Dark.
Every window.
Thomas stared at it longer than necessary.
“She wouldn’t stay here if she was upset,” Rick said quietly. “She always goes to—”
“She didn’t choose,” Thomas replied.
He walked closer, peering through the front window.
Nothing.
No lamp glow. No movement. No, Rylie curled on the couch with a book, pretending everything was fine.
His jaw tightened.
“She’s gone,” Rick whispered.
