Frustration had me pushing away from my desk with force while I slammed my fists down repeatedly against the metal surface. I was angrier than fuck that we had no solid leads, and the guilt I felt was slowly eating me alive.
“Jesus, Boden, are you all right?” my sergeant asked.
“Not exactly, sir,” I replied without making eye contact.
“You need to go home and get some sleep.”
“No offense, sir, but that’s the last thing I need.”
“You aren’t alone here. We’ve got the entire force taking the necessary steps to find your friend as if she were one of our own, but speaking asyour friend, you and I both know when we get run down, we can miss the most obvious clue that’s right in front of us.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re far from it, I’m afraid. If you won’t go home, at least unplug for an hour.”
“Sarg—”
“That’s a direct order.” He turned and walked away with purpose.
I headed outside in desperate search of fresh air, hoping to clear my head. I was drowning. Each breath was equivalent to a ticking time bomb that burned with an ache that was crippling.
I walked over to my truck and lowered the flatbed to use as a seat. The memory of Lakelyn and me at the lake property flashed to the forefront of my thoughts, and I couldn’t help but smile. The events of that night had been unexpected but in the best way possible. The rain led to holding her in my arms while we stood under the open sky. Her infectious laugh from the hilarity we found ourselves in still filled my ears when I closed my eyes.
The lake was my place, where I went to escape and seek solace, and I know Lakelyn felt it too. We connected on that trip and gave a piece of ourselves to each other, whether we realized it at the time or not.
Lakelyn felt like home. The missing piece my heart didn’t know it needed.
I jumped off the back of my truck and placed my hands down on the flatbed.
“Fucking hell.” I groaned with my head hung low.
The feeling of helplessness was consuming.
My anger billowed.
Listening to Jenna explain how Lakelyn was pegged as a front-runner early on made me want to rage. I wanted to strangle those damn reality show producers who used, manipulated, and preyed on her vulnerability. All the added screen time and media presence—seemingly caught the attention of her dead sister’s husband and led her into a twisted revenge plot.
They needed to be held accountable for their actions. Exploiting people for ratings was utter bullshit.
Heads would fucking spin if I didn’t get her back in one piece.
My cell pinged with an incoming text message.
Jenna: We got a hit. The company is registered to Anthony Montoya.
“Anthony Montoya,” I repeated out loud.
My belief that Jenna’s husband might have access to faster resources at his disposal paid off, but I still hadn’t expected a reply to be quiet so fast.
“Anthony Montoya,” I mumbled again under my breath, unable to tear my eyes away from the name. “Why does that sound so familiar?”
And then it hit me.
My feet pounded the pavement with renewed determination, rushing back to my desk, praying I was right. But with my nerves entirely on edge, I managed to knock over my coffee cup, sending the spilled liquid on a path directly toward the stack of case files I was after.
“Shit.”
I grabbed the files as quickly as my reflexes would allow, turned, and dropped to the floor, not giving a fuck about the spill, and started frantically rifling through the files.
