Another fucking mystery.
Whyno lookouts?Whodid Rhett kill?Howdid Hailey end up at the warehouse in the first place?Whendid this happen?
Was it the night Alex died or earlier?
I pause when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. It’s an email from Ryder, the subject line kicking up my already dangerously high adrenaline level.
Hailey’s phone records.
“Fuck,” I huff, pausing halfway across the room.
As tempting as checking Alex and Hailey’s messages is, as hard as the rational part of my brain tries to take the reins, this isnotthe time.
The unease seeping into my bones won’t settle until I’m with Hailey. It’s already been forty minutes since she went to scribble in her diary.
Too long.
The phone records can wait. I’ll have plenty of time once we reach the safe house. No matter what I find in them, it won’t help me right now. Alex wasn’t an idiot. He wouldn’t have texted the evidence’s location to Hailey.
I’m pretty fucking sure I’d only find more reasons to murder a dead man.
47
Carter
The moment I open the door to Hailey’s room, a sinking feeling seizes my stomach. It’s too quiet, too still. The desk lamp casts a soft glow across the room and her made bed: not a crease in sight. I’ve been here every day for weeks. This is the first time her bed hasn’t been a tangle of sheets and pillows.
My chest tightens on cue, a sense of impending doom seizing my muscles. I shake it all off.
I’m on edge, jumping to conclusions.
Inhaling a calming breath, I enter the bathroom, and my conclusion is confirmed when I find it empty.
Not empty as in no Hailey.
Empty as in no cosmetics, towels, or dirty laundry. No creams. No serums. No toothbrush.
Now I let fear take center stage. My heart hammers against my ribs, trying to break free.
She’s gone.
Gone.
Why? What fucking changed?
I whirl back into the room, and yank open her closet, hoping, praying... but it’s as empty as the fucking bathroom. Her clothes, her shoes, scarves, those stupid cardigans... all gone.
A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead, my hands shaking, a litany of curses fraying my tongue.
Where the fuck did she go?
I scan the room, searching for clues until a big, redNASHscribbled at the top of a page torn from her diary catches my attention.
I lean over the desk, my finger gouging into the hard wood, pulse pounding in my ears.
Blood. So much blood. Everywhere, on his white shirt, brown coat, and gray pants. It’s dripping from his hands, speckling his forehead—a jarring contrast to his pale face.
He’s white as a sheet, staring at the blood pooling at his feet.
