Page 60 of Straight Shooter

“Call me back in fifteen minutes.”

“B-But, that’s not enough⁠—”

“Make it enough.” He ended the call and dropped the phone in the cupholder.

Mandy sat tensely beside him. “I’m just going to throw this out there, but I find it hard to believe Eric’s involved. The dude’s as vigilant as you are. He works his ass off even if he’s a pain in one sometimes.”

He glanced at Mandy and took in her wide, disbelieving eyes. “Something was fishy when he showed up at Max’s. Instinct counts for something, doesn’t it? And now Peyton’s left me a hint. I can’t—won’t—overlook it.”

She held up her hand. “Fine. If he’s innocent it won’t matter. But we’re wasting precious time.” She turned to look out the window. “Where are we going?”

He smiled. “Eric’s. He’s at the station making sure Moretti gets booked.”

She turned her body toward him, straining against her seatbelt. “You can’t be serious.”

He turned onto Eric’s street. “Like you said, we’re wasting time. I’ll take a quick look around.”

“Uh-uh.” She waved her hand in the air. “You’re out of your mind.”

He pulled into the parking lot and slammed the car into park. Leaning to rest his elbow on the console, he invaded Mandy’s personal space and met her lively green eyes. “If you warn him, I’ll consider you in on this.” He tapped her hand. “Wait here.”

He got out then skirted the side of the apartment building. No way he’d chance going in through the lobby and Eric’s front door, especially when he didn’t have a lockpick set on him. He’d been inside Eric’s place only twice, but as he scanned the white stucco wall, he recognized the main-floor unit with a lone green lawn chair overlooking the river. Grabbing the railing, he swung his legs over the edge and dropped down in front of the sliding door. He pressed the handle and the glass glided open as smoothly as butter melting on a skillet.

He shut the door behind him and was greeted by the scent of sweaty gym socks. He wrinkled his nose but quickly made his way around the coffee table and toward the single bedroom off the living room. A used towel was draped over the side of Eric’s unmade bed, but other than that the room wasn’t too messy. He went to the nightstand first and opened the drawers. The first one held a box of condoms, a book whose title he didn’t care to read, and earplugs. The other two held nothing but junk. Then he moved to the dresser against the wall and rummaged through Eric’s clothing—nothing.

“Fuck!” He slammed the bottom drawer and a piece of driftwood rolled off the top of the dresser. Bending to pick it up, he turned over the bleached, featherlight timber. There was a carving on the back:

Paradise of the Sea

He smoothed his thumb over the dents in the gently cracked wood and reread the words. Houses located on older parts of the island had names as well as street addresses.

Driftwood. It had to be from the house Eric—or his family—owned. Tearing his phone from his pocket, he exited the way he’d entered and typed the name in the search engine. A red pin popped up on the GPS.

He darted around the palm trees that dotted the lawn and jumped into the car. Mandy lifted her gaze from her phone. “I heard from—wait, did you find something?”

“Yup. A property called Paradise of the Sea.”

Her usually cheerful features hardened. “That’s what Tommy found too. Turns out Eric’s father owns the beach house, but he’s away on business.”

Rhett slammed his palm against the steering wheel and jammed his buckle into place. “That sonofabitch.”

He reversed and drove out of the parking lot as the GPS sang out directions. His mind whirled like an overshaken snow globe. The sweat dotting his hairline rolled into his eyes, and he quickly brushed it away. He shoved his foot onto the gas pedal and the speedometer ratcheted up as quickly as his pulse.

If he was too late, he’d never forgive himself.

Hang on, honey. I’m coming.

Chapter

Twenty-Two

Splash!

Salty water rushed inside Peyton’s nostrils, burning her sinuses. She surged forward and spluttered, blinking rapidly. Saliva and water dribbled from her lips.

“That did it.” The steel bucket bounced off the floor with a clatter and rolled to the wall. “One broken finger and you were out for fifteen minutes. This better not take all fucking day.” Beanie sneered.

His reminder of the attack on her hand brought fresh, white-hot pain to the area. She kept her focus on the cracks in the cement floor, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see blood coating her hand and bone protruding from the skin.