Useful shit for someone playing survivalist for the rest of their lives.
But there’s nothing else. No leases in his name. No vehicle registration. Hell, not even a driver’s license, birth certificate, or social security number. It’s like the kid just appeared one day, signed up for classes, then vanished fifteen months later—the same day Grace did.
Someone purposely scrubbed all traces of him from the system.
I drag my hands over my face, stubble scratching against my palms, but doing nothing to quell the itch under my skin. The one that says this kid is the key to finding out who took her.
Grace has a vague memory of him turning in his painting. She even managed to sketch him last night. I stare at it until my eyes burn. He looks like the stereotypical white, Texas twenty-one year old. Broad shouldered, fit, with dark eyes and short-cropped dark hair.
Austin PD finally got a hold of him two full weeks after Grace disappeared. But he’d moved to some podunk town in Iowa—or so he’d claimed. His alibi checked out, so they never pushed for more than a phone interview.
Fucking idjits. If all of Joshua’s so-called friends and the bar owner who claimed he spent the entire afternoon and evening celebrating his bachelor party aren’t cult members, I’ll eat my Stetson.
I push to my feet and head for the break room—and yet another cup of coffee so bitter, it’s probably eating a hole in my stomach—only to find Marvin pulling a container of yogurt out of the fridge. I almost turn right around, but without another hit of caffeine, I’ll fall asleep and drool all over Joshua’s transcripts.
“AJ? You got a minute?” Marvin asks.
I pin my gaze to my mug as I pour. “Nope.”
“Please, man. I fucked up, and it’s been eatin’ at me somethin’ fierce.” The shame in his voice is such a change from his usual cockiness, that I set the cup down and glance over at him. “I thought I was lookin’ out for you. I know how hard you took it when McGrath and Billings were killed last year. But I didn’t say a damn thing then, and I’ve been regrettin’ it ever since.”
A sharp pang of grief spears my chest. A drug ring murdered two of my lieutenants a few months ago to get to Isabel’s daughter, Veronica. The young woman had evidence that could have sent the dealers to jail for the rest of their lives. If they’d lived. Connor and I made that a non-issue.
“They were good men.” I lift my mug in a vague salute toward the remembrance wall at the far end of the bullpen.
“Two of our finest,” Marvin agrees. “Listen…goin’ to Harris like I did…it was out of line. I didn’t mean for all that shit to land on Grace like that. She’s been through enough.”
He takes a step closer, and his tone softens even more. “Look, it’s gotta be tough, man. You get her back and then find out she’s gotta have fuckin’ brain surgery? What do you need? Is there anythin’ I can do to help? Run interference with Harris? Take shifts at the hospital? Start a meal train?”
For a long moment, I don’t have an answer for him. If it weren’t for his CIs—and Harris’s unwavering confidence in a man too lazy to go out on his own stakeouts—we would’ve been up at the cabin that weekend. I’ve never forgiven him for that. Even if he couldn’t have known what would happen.
The cult would have come for her anyway. But maybe…I’d have been there to stop them.
“We’re good, Marvin. But…thanks.” I sidestep him, but he grabs my arm.
“You stickin’ by her through all this… Most men would’ve cut and run. That kind of love is worth fightin’ for, Stone. Don’t ever stop.”
Talking with Marvin leaves me off balance and desperate to get home to Grace. But when I told Harris that I’d be takin’ tomorrow and all next week off, he almost fired me on the spot.
“If we weren’t so damn understaffed already, I’d cut you both loose faster than greased lightning. But knowin’ you—and Elmore—you’d keep showin’ up anyway. Probably find some fuckin’ medical leave law that says I can’t fire you while your wife’s under the knife.”
So Parker and I are stuck here until the chief walks out the door. At least Hardison is still on Harris’s good side. We need someone who can come and go without constant scrutiny. He’s gonna pay the bar owner who alibied Joshua Nichols a visit.
Unable to focus on much else, I shut myself in my office and call Zephyr.
The video call connects in seconds. “Tell me you’ve got somethin’ on Joshua Nichols, Nova, Prophets, or any large players in the power market.” I take a sip of coffee, grimace, and set the mug aside. Battery acid would be healthier.
“AJ, I’m working half a dozen different angles all at once. I don’t get out of this chair unless it’s for tea, sleep, or sex, and there’s been precious little sex lately.”
“Fuck, Zephyr. I…I’m sorry.” A flush crawls up the back of my neck. If I’ve learned one thing about the woman in the past two weeks, it’s that she ain’t gonna sugar coat a thing. Not for me or anyone else.
“I’m buying a walking pad this weekend. At least then I won’t be sitting on my ass twelve hours a day.”
The screen splits, and Zephyr overlays a map with half a dozen green dots. “Grace was taken three years ago. And I’d bet my considerable skills, the cult didn’t pop into existence because some kid saw her tattoo. So I’ve been going through the past ten years of bulk solar panel purchases.”
“Ten years?” I rub the back of my neck. “Fuck, Zephyr. You think they’ve been operatin’ that long?”
“Minimum,” she says. “Cults don’t sprout up overnight. Neither do cartels for that matter. It takes years to amass enough infrastructure, move people off the grid, and ensure their loyalty. Or their compliance. Solar panels are just one fingerprint. They couldn’t exactly get these delivered with free overnight shipping, so I dug into industrial distributors…down to the freight logs.”
