Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Find me. I’m counting on you.
23
Asher
Protocols exist to keep me calm. At 12:00 Charlotte promised a quick pool check-in, then back here so we could grab lunch and go over the new CCTV routes I mapped after last night’s charity circus. Five minutes late isn’t a crisis. She’s occasionally late when Melanie gets chatty.
But at exactly 12:05 I start the clock in my head—an old habit from convoy duty. Every five-minute block without status equals a graduated response. First a friendly text, then a confirmation ping, then physical recon.
12:07
All good down there?
Nothing. I refresh the thread.
12:11
Need your ETA. Food’s on the way.
Still nothing. I set my phone face-down and try to focus on copying security footage from last night. Wade lurking, Nancy micromanaging, Charlotte glowing in that lethal red dress, but adrenaline edges into my bloodstream like black ink in water.
12:17
Charlotte, respond.
Blue ticks show delivered but no bubbles. The missing three blinking dots feel like a weight on my chest.
By 12:20 the clock inside my skull is a siren. I stow the computer in the safe, lock the suite, and take the back stairwell two at a time.
Humidity slams me like a wet blanket when I step outside. Umbrellas flutter, kids squeal, someone’s Bluetooth speaker hums reggae.
I sweep the nearest cabanas. There’s no teal sundress, no dark hair. That internal siren cranks a notch.
Melanie Mason is easy to spot, reclining like a queen bee on her chaise, neon sarong bright as a high-vis vest. She’s livestreaming herself tasting an oversized slushy in three-second bursts of influencer hyperbole.
I plant myself between her and the sun. “Melanie.”
She jerks, hits ‘end’ on the stream. “You scared the b-Jesus out of me, Asher. Can you not materialize like the Terminator?”
“Where’s Charlotte?” My voice is flat, controlled.
She squints behind gold aviators. “Spa boutique with her mom. They wanted to sniff candles. She left, what… twenty minutes ago? Half hour?”
“Exact time,” I insist.
She wrinkles her nose. “I wasn’t staring at the clock. Sometime after noon.”
Charlotte had explicit orders. She does not deviate without a text. “Did you see her leave this deck?”
“Yes.” She starts scrolling on her phone as if bored already. “She hugged me, said her mom texted for some retail therapy. Why the SWAT interrogation?”
I ignore the dig, send another text. Nothing. Screen says Delivered 12:07, still unread.
“Phone calls going through?” Melanie asks, false casual.
“Going to voicemail.” I dial as demonstration—one ring, straight to inbox. Either off, smashed, or no service. This is bad. “Did you notice anyone near her? Anyone following?”
Melanie shrugs. “Just other guests. Relax, Kevlar Ken. She’s fine.”
“Humor me.” I scan the cocktail tables, the gate to the spa wing, the discrete lens of a security camera perched above. Resort staff in teal polos circulate. None alert my instinct, but instinct whispers Charlotte wouldn’t vanish voluntarily.
Melanie sits up, presses a playful hand to my bicep. “You, me, margaritas. It’ll take your mind—”
I step back. “Not now.”
She pouts. “You’re always on. It’s so exhausting.”
“Safety never clocks out.” I motion her to stand. “Walk with me. Retrace her steps.”
We exit the decking, moving along the paved loop that skirts landscaping beds of hibiscus and bird-of-paradise. I keep half a step ahead, eyes scanning every shadow.
“Seriously,” Melanie says, “this is overkill. Charlotte’s mother probably dragged her to High Tea.”
“Her mother doesn’t drink tea. She’s allergic to chamomile.”
Melanie snorts. “You keep files on herbal allergies?”
“Anything that helps me spot lies.” I shoot her a look. “And right now, I’m spotting one.”
Her laugh falters. “Excuse me?”
“You said Charlotte went with her mother. Let’s confirm.”
We step inside the lobby as conference-goers swarm between poster boards and continental lunch. I track Margaret Lane’s signature floral pastels at the far end near the concierge. She’s deep in conversation with a banquet manager.
“Stay here,” I instruct Melanie.
I thread through the crowd to Mrs. Lane. “Ma’am, pardon, have you seen Charlotte?”
She smiles, then reads my face and pales. “Not since this morning. Why?”
My gut bottoms. “Thought she was with you.”
“I’m finalizing gala donations.” She grips my forearm. “Asher, where is my daughter?”
“Working on it,” I assure, pulling away.
Melanie is already drifting toward the elevator bank, tapping on her phone. I intercept.
“Why did you tell me Charlotte went shopping with her mother?”
Melanie blinks behind massive lenses. “That’s what I thought she said. Hmm, maybe I misheard. Don’t crucify me.”
“Phone,” I demand.
“What?”
“Your phone. Let me see your last messages.”
She recoils. “Absolutely not. Privacy ring any bells?”
Suspicion flares hot. But I’m wasting seconds. My blood boils, but I know I can’t yank her phone away from her without causing a scene. “Fine. Stay reachable.”
I step aside, dialing Dean on my burner as I stride for the staff hallway.
Dean answers mid-ring. “Hawke.”
“Charlotte’s off-grid. Unanswered texts, phone to voicemail. Last known location is the pool deck at 12:05. Need phone trace.”
“On it.” Keystrokes clatter. “Triangulating… ping returns location inside resort geofence, northeast quadrant—maintenance and logistics.”