Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“That wasn’t her,” Carl shouts from the entrance of the harbor.
No shit.
Two blocks ahead, the other three guards sprint hard, tearing back toward the mechanic shop with trained speed. They blow past people, past carts, past shouting voices, all of it blurring into noise in their wake.
I’m right behind or trying to be.
My phone’s in my hand again, my thumb slamming the screen.
“Come on, Dove. Pick up.”
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Pick up,” I snarl under my breath, lungs ripping and legs on fire. “Pick up. Pick up.”
It goes to voice mail.
Carl falls in beside me, matching my stride as he switches between his headset and radio, calling all units and dispatching teams to the tattoo parlor and the mechanic shop.
My world narrows to one thing.
Getting to her.
My lungs feel too small as I pump my arms and overdrive my legs, letting the pain turn into fuel. Anyone in my way gets flattened. Anyone near her when I arrive is dead. I will tear this town apart if I have to.
I don’t think about the blood in the tattoo shop.
I don’t think about Jag missing.
I think about her laugh, her kiss, and the way she rolled backward into that shop like nothing bad could touch her there.
If anyone has—
If anyone—
I bare my teeth and run.
Carl shouts into his mic, spitting coordinates and rerouting bodies. He glances at me once, sees my face, and doesn’t try to slow me down.
I skid into the garage seconds after the security team, breath tearing out of my chest in ragged pulls.
“Clear!” someone shouts.
I blow past them and into the bays where she should be.
The shop is wrong in a way I recognize instantly. Too still. Tools laid out mid-thought. A creeper abandoned halfway under a lift.
Guards fan out, methodical, weapons up, checking corners, checking shadows, checking places that can’t possibly hold her.
I already know.
My eyes go straight to the spot by the workbench where she dropped her bag.
It’s still there.
But her skates aren’t. They’re not on the floor. Not tucked under the bench. Not kicked aside, where she always leaves them.
A guard shakes his head at Carl and holds out a phone.
Dove’s phone.
The garage tilts, and I have to plant my boots wider to stay upright. My hands curl into fists. My vision tunnels, and every nerve lights up. Then goes numb.
I replay it all at once. The doorway, the sunlight, and the kiss she caught and threw back. She told me to go, and I listened.
I should’ve stayed.
I should’ve known.
I should’ve—
The thoughts don’t finish. They fracture, scatter, and burn.
Pain floods in and spreads everywhere, behind my eyes, in my throat, and down my spine. All the noise fades, the guards, the radios, and the city outside, leaving a hollowed-out space where she’s supposed to be.
Carl comes up beside me, breathing hard. “We’re canvassing the blocks. Cameras. Harbor feeds. Everyone’s moving. Your family is inbound.”
I nod once, because nodding is all I can manage.
Dove is gone.
Sitka slams shut like a fist. Red and blue everywhere. Sirens slice the air. Radios bark codes. Cops flood the streets, and harbor patrols choke the docks.
None of it matters if Dove isn’t safe.
I scan faces, lights, and shadows, looking for her where she can’t possibly be.
Monty Strakh stands at the center of it all, calm in a terrifying way I’ve only seen once before. The night I met him at the doctor’s dead-body dinner party.
Phone glued to his ear, Monty points, and people snap to attention around him. Private security. Federal favors. Maritime contacts. Money moving faster than the law ever can.
“I want the town shut down yesterday.” He pauses, listening to the mayor on the phone. “You heard me. I want the floatplanes grounded. Ferries stalled. Coast Guard cutters idle in the water. All roads bottlenecked. Every possible exit becomes a barricade with a badge in front of it.”
He’s done this before. When Frankie vanished, he bent the world until it screamed.
He’s doing it again.
But I can’t stand still long enough to watch.
When Carl confirms the cameras were smashed and the footage wiped in both shops, that’s my cue to go.
I take my motorcycle and tear through Sitka. Up the hills. Down by the water. Through neighborhoods where porch lights flick on, and faces appear behind curtains. I search alleys, doorways, and shadows that look like people until they don’t.
Through it all, a familiar engine rumbles behind me, close enough to feel like a hand on my shoulder.
Leo.
Every turn I take, he takes. Each burst of speed he matches without crowding me. He’s not chasing. He’s shepherding, babysitting, making sure I come back from this ride in one piece, even if I hate him for it later.
As we rip along the waterfront, my throttle hand twitches, urging me faster, harder, anywhere but inside my head.
Every denim jacket turns my stomach. Every thirty-something woman makes my heart kick.