Owen:
Text me after. Hope it goes well.
Clover:
Her message sends my heart soaring, but only for a moment, because not a minute later my work phone rings, and my sergeant's name appears.
“Hey, Sarg.”
“Swift, I hate to be the person to tell you this, but Armstrong’s mother posted his bail after his arraignment.”
Fuck!
“How the hell did Marcy Armstrong come up with that kind of money?”
“I had the same question. I’m guessing she recently, as in today, came into a large sum of money from a bank account on the East Coast.”
“Ain’t this some bullshit.”
“Sorry, man.”
“Do we have eyes on him? Do we know where he went?”
“Every agency within a fifty-mile radius is stretched thin to make sure the McKinnons and their properties are safe.”
Shit. He’s right.
“Sorry, sir. You’re right. Still, we need to let TSA know to be on the lookout in case he attempts to skip town.”
“Already done.”
“Appreciate you.”
“We’ll do everything we can to keep Armstrong in town and figure out who he’s working with.”
“We know who he’s working with.”
“We need proof. You know that.”
“Yes, but you saw his reaction.”
“I did, Swift, but it’s not enough. We’ve got all hands on deck. We’ll get these assholes.”
“I won’t sleep until we do.”
“Understood. Listen, I have to go, but we’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks again, Sarg.”
Our call disconnects, and the wheels in my mind spin with a million different scenarios.
Will Dusty try to skip town?
Now that he’s confessed, he would be a fool to do anything else, so he isn’t really a threat anymore. Right?
Then there’s the text sent to Daisy. They don’t have to trace it. We all know who it’s from. They’ve already pushed her off a cliff and set the ranch on fire. Whoever sent that text isn’t fucking around. We all need to be on the alert.
And now I have to tell my favorite people in the world that Armstrong is free. Our shitshow just keeps getting worse. Just as I’m about to spiral, I get a text that makes me chuckle from the woman who fucking loves me.
