Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
She blows out a breath. “There were phone calls. A few times I answered, and no one would speak. Just heavy breathing. I changed the shop’s number after that, which is why I didn’t think about it anymore. I guess I thought it’d go away.”
I’m quiet for a minute, letting the new information sink in. A heavy breather on the phone, menacing emails, a thrown brick—this is more than casual harassment. It’s personal. “You mentioned you fired someone around the same time all this started,” I say, recalling our conversation in the hotel.
She bites her lip, nodding. “Mitch. He was an older guy—late fifties, maybe? He worked for me for about four months, but then things got weird. He would show up late or not at all, and he had this attitude whenever I tried to talk to him about it. I warned him a few times, but he never improved, so I let him go. He stormed out, cursing me out. Called me all sorts of names, said I’d regret it.”
I frown, turning that over in my head. “Sounds like a prime suspect to me. Did he ever come back? Ask for a second chance?”
“No,” Aubree says, hugging the foam box tighter. “But I heard from Stuart that Mitch was spotted hanging around the high school a couple times after that. Not sure if he was messing with Slice Slice Baby or just being a creep. Stuart confronted him once, I think, and Mitch said something along the lines of, ‘This place is going down, sooner or later.’” She exhales, her breath shaky. “I just wrote it off as him being bitter.”
My jaw clenches. “Bitter enough to threaten you, apparently. Did you ever file a police report about Mitch?”
She shakes her head. “No. I guess I should have, but I didn’t want to escalate things. I was naive.”
I can hear the self-blame in her voice and resist the urge to reach over and place a hand on her thigh. I can’t afford that kind of contact right now, not when I need to stay objective. “We’ll see what Dean digs up on him,” I say firmly. “If he has a record, we’ll know soon.”
She nods, falling silent again. I let the conversation lapse for a few miles, focusing on the road. The scenery is changing—rolling hills, thick clusters of trees. We’ll be heading up into more remote terrain soon, away from main highways. That’s exactly what I want: somewhere off the grid, difficult to track.
Eventually, she speaks up, her voice small. “Hey, Boone?”
“Yeah?” I keep my gaze forward, scanning the horizon.
“Can we… can we call my mom?” She shifts, as though she’s about to reach for her pocket, forgetting that her phone isn’t there. “Just to let her know I’m okay. She’s probably worried sick.”
My grip on the steering wheel tightens. I remember the conversation I had with Dean this morning, the details he dug up on Aubree’s step-father. I don’t have definitive proof he’s involved, but something about the financial records—transfers, odd payments—makes me suspicious as hell. I don’t like the idea of telling Aubree, not until I’m certain. I also don’t like the idea of calling her mom, who might pass along our location to her husband.
“Not a good idea right now,” I say carefully, trying not to sound too harsh.
She frowns. “Why not?”
“Because if your phone’s traceable—and it might be, if these people are determined enough—calling your mom could give away our general area. Even if they can’t pinpoint our exact location, they’ll know which cell towers we’re using.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the full truth either. I decide to push the technical side, so I don’t have to mention her step-father yet. “I’m not willing to risk that.”
She inhales sharply, her frustration palpable. “My mom’s going to freak out, though.”
I glance over and see tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. My resolve wavers. But then I steel myself. Her safety is more important than her mother’s peace of mind, at least for now. “Aubree, I get that. But this is about survival. We can’t contact anyone until I’m sure it’s safe.”
She bites her lip, tears threatening to fall. “Fine,” she whispers, turning her head to stare out the window again.
I know she’s hurting. I don’t like doing this to her, but it’s the only way. For all I know, her step-father could be the one pulling the strings—some messed-up plot to scare her out of town. The possibility seems wild, but stranger things have happened. Until I have answers, I’m not taking any risks.
The highway narrows, and soon I take an exit onto a smaller state route. The trees loom taller, the land more isolated. We pass a scattering of houses, most set far back from the road. Time slips by, the monotony of the drive broken only by the occasional passing vehicle.