“It’s Sloane, Sommer’s sister. What’s happening?”
“I don’t have an update. Marna and Abbie are in the hospital with their illness.”
“No,” Sloane shouted. “Sommer.”
“She called you last night. She’s fine.”
“No, she’s not.”
“She is. Sloane, I left her off at her house an hour ago.”
“She’s not answering her phone.”
“She’s probably asleep or soaking in the tub. Or maybe she’s outside?”
“No. Gabriel, something's terribly wrong.”
“I’m at work,” Gabriel started to catch the panic from Sloane’s voice. “If you’re worried, you could maybe go over.”
“My husband has the SUV with the car seats, and I have the kids.”
“Sloane, you’re probably picking up on Sommer worrying about her friends. Or that she’s remembering some of the harrowing things she went through. You did great. You got help heading her way. You’re the reason everyone is safely off the mountain. This is the aftershock.”
“Do you think?”
Did he?
Not really.
“I’d try calling her again in an hour or so.” It was lame. What he wanted to do was jump in his car and check on her because Sloane had proven to have a connection.
“Okay. Sorry. Thank you. Good luck at work.” And she hung up.
She didn’t sound any more convinced than he was.
He tapped back to his other conversation. “Here.”
“Joint Task Force is still on the line. We’re holding for Pensky.”
“Atworth?” the special agent asked a moment later. “I’m going to show you what I see.”
Gabriel squinted at the feed. “No, that’s not it. Do you see that downspout? Please head that way. There should be a basement window about knee height, about four feet wide.”
Time passed, and Gabriel shifted impatiently in his seat. He wondered if he could go back on hold and try Sommer himself.
“We think we’ve got them. Hold tight.”
Another call came through; Reaper’s name was on the display.
“Finley,” Gabriel said, “I have another call coming in about another mission. I’ll move through it as fast as I can.”
“Copy.”
“Gabriel,” he said.
“Hey, Reaper here. I have Whiskey in my car with me.”
“What do you mean?” Adrenaline buzzed Gabriel’s lips.
