Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
I muttered a curse under my breath as a minivan abruptly cut in front of me, making a last-second left turn across three lanes and nearly clipping my bumper. My coffee sloshed in the cup holder, causing me to grit my teeth just as another rental car swerved into my lane without any warning.
Hell.
I slowed to a crawl as we hit the tourist gauntlet filled with bright signs, cheap souvenirs, and those goddamn oversized billboards distracting people who were driving their land whales.
My phone rang again just as I was about to lift my hand to give someone the finger.
“Talk to me.”
“Found her address,” Matty replied without preamble. “I've sent it to your phone. She's on West Colonial Drive. It's a small house with one bed and looks like a holdover from a different decade. Funny thing is, I already had someone a few blocks away, so I sent ‘em to check it out before I called.”
“Yeah?”
He hesitated before answering, raising my hackles even more. “The place looks dead, Webb. There's no car in the drive, no movement, and no sign of anyone coming or going.”
My gut twisted at this information as I glanced down at my phone, the text with the address just popping up. I thumbed it open and tapped to send it to my truck’s GPS.
“You think she skipped town?”
“If what you’re saying is true, she might have already been on the run—scrambling to cover her tracks by getting rid of anything that could connect her to this place and hoping no one figures it out before she's long gone.”
The GPS began chirping directions, rerouting me off the hell-zone of the main strip. I gritted my teeth, weaving around a double-parked SUV whose driver looked like they were arguing with Google Maps. I wasn't going to judge them on how crazy they looked, we'd all been there.
“Any signs of forced entry?”
“Negative. My contact says the place looked secure—perhaps too secure, actually. The house has a reinforced door, and there aren't any broken windows. Honestly, with all the security, it seems like someone who expected trouble lived there.”
“Shit,” I sighed. It sounded exactly like someone knew what was coming and made it even more likely she was in trouble.
I could still hear the traffic buzzing around me—horns honking, brakes screeching, and the distant shouts of a tourist who likely missed the turn for Disney and took out their frustration on a roundabout. But my mind wasn't in the cab of that truck anymore, it was on Gabby and whatever trouble she had gotten herself into.
And how damn fast I needed to find her before someone else did.
The GPS led me off West Colonial Drive and down a narrow street that looked as if it hadn’t undergone a zoning update since the 1960s. Single-story homes lined both sides—concrete blocks, flat roofs, faded pastel paint jobs, some with sun-bleached flamingos in the yard. It was the kind of neighborhood that didn’t bother pretending it was anything other than tired and stubbornly still standing.
I rolled to a stop in front of Gabby’s house. It looked normal. It was too normal, especially when you knew about the steel door and everything else Matty's guy had noticed.
The small house had white siding, a short walkway cracked with weeds, and a mailbox leaning sideways like it had given up on life. There was no car in the driveway, and no movement was visible behind the windows.
But that wasn’t what made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The house felt held like it was bracing for something. I’d seen plenty of abandoned places in my life—some empty, some hiding secrets—and this one didn’t feel empty per se. It felt sealed off.
I killed the engine and stepped out into the thick air. The sun was dipping behind the trees, casting long shadows across the yard, and the cicadas were starting up, loud and nervous.
I walked slowly but didn’t approach the door right away, I just did a lap around the property, taking it all in. That’s what Dad taught me: always look before you knock. I searched the ground near the windows, the bushes, and the mailbox for signs indicating that someone had been there recently.
The porch was spotless, but it was too clean. The doormat was crooked as if it had been moved and then dropped again in a hurry. The door didn’t have your average deadbolt — this one had a steel plate retrofit tucked low behind a decorative kick panel.
I wasn't sure if this meant the resident was paranoid or prepared. With Gabby, apparently, there was no difference.
I circled around to the back of the house, watching my footing as I went—every step deliberate, just in case something had been left behind. The yard was fully fenced, but the gate wasn’t locked, which struck me as careless or calculated—I couldn’t tell which. I climbed up onto the back porch and took a moment to scan the space. Just like the front, the back door stood solid and secure—reinforced, triple-locked, and pristine. Not a single scratch, dent, or sign of forced entry. It was almost too perfect like someone had gone out of their way to make sure it stayed untouched.