Page 53 of PenPal Hero

CHAPTER 10: OFF THE GRID

Six hours later

Holt paced the back of Sheriff Cade Malone’s office. “We should’ve heard from them by now.” With every passing hour, he grew more frantic for news about Bonnie and Jackson. He’d been so busy helping corral the shooter at the wedding that he hadn’t seen what direction the oldest and youngest Yates’ siblings had taken.

“I’m just glad they’re together,” Pearl Yates murmured tearfully. She and her husband, Preston, were huddled at the sheriff’s conference table on the side of the room with their other four sons. Their cell phones were resting in front of them on the table. Every few minutes, they attempted to call their missing children, but all they got was voicemail. Immediate voicemail, which told Holt that Bonnie and Jackson had turned off their cell phones. The trackers on their phones proved to be undetectable. It might mean they’d removed their battery packs. It might also mean they’d destroyed their phones altogether to avoid the risk of being tracked through them.

Holt didn’t comment on Mrs. Yates’ statement, because he wasn’t feeling as charitable toward her oldest son at the moment as she was. Sure, he was glad Jackson had swooped in to move Bonnie out of harm’s way, but disappearing into thin air with her was unacceptable. How hard was it to pick up the phone —even a burner phone —to reassure their loved ones that they’d made it to safety?

Unless they’d failed to do so…

Had they been injured in the crossfire?

Had Bonnie’s captors overtaken them?

The sheriff was speaking in a low voice with Jude Westfield, who was straddling a chair backwards beside his desk. Whatever Jude told him made him glance around the room somberly. “Houston, we have a problem, folks!”

No kidding, Sherlock! Holt rounded on the Scottish man, eyeing the way he was scrubbing his hand over his auburn beard.

“According to my source — and, before you ask, I’m not at liberty to divulge their identity — a significant deposit was made into Jackson’s bank account two weeks ago.”

Holt snorted. It was obvious to him that the guy’s source was sitting right next to him.

“By significant,” Preston Yates cut in harshly, “you mean?—”

“Ten thousand dollars from an untraceable source,” the sheriff supplied crisply, “which your son subsequently withdrew in cash over the last several days. Though it’s too soon to jump to conclusions, it sure seems to indicate he was planning on going off the grid and staying there for a while.”

“Why take Bonnie with him?” Holt wasn’t really expecting an answer, but he had to ask.

Mr. Yates shook his head. “Maybe he didn’t feel like he had a choice.”

“We can speculate all night long,” the sheriff leaned his forearms on his desk, facing them squarely, “or we can get down to some good old-fashioned detective work.” He pointed at the door. “Starting with the co-owners of K&G Security. They’re on their way, and they’ve agreed to answer any questions you have about how their team handled security at the wedding.”

Holt reached up and gripped his hair as he continued to pace the room. As fearful as he was about Bonnie’s safety, his heart went out to Alice and her new husband. One of the most special events in their lives had ended in pure disaster. They’d postponed their honeymoon and were lingering in the waiting room outside the sheriff’s office, hoping and praying for an update on Bonnie’s whereabouts.

A knock sounded on the door. It was one of the sheriff’s deputies, ushering Foster Kane and Lyon Garrett into the room. Foster’s rough past and Lyon’s burn scars, that no amount of ink on his arms could hide, gave the room a more menacing feel. They weren’t the kind of men most people wanted to mess with.

Holt watched the Yates brothers sit up straighter in their seats, but he was too mentally wiped out to care about anything other than news about Bonnie. “Where is she?” he demanded wearily. If they wanted to fire him for insubordination, so be it.

Foster gave him a sympathetic look. “Someone is trying their hardest to make it look like Jackson took her.”

A whimper escaped Pearl Yates. “He would never do anything to hurt her! Never!” She spat out the word, and her sons nodded vehemently.

Foster caught her gaze and held it. “Permission to share what we know about the search with everyone present? Otherwise, we’ll ask non-family members to leave the room.”

Other than the sheriff and Jude Westfield, Holt was the only non-family member in the room. He glared at his bosses, knowing he was likely the only one who’d be asked to leave.

“Everyone can stay,” Mrs. Yates quavered. “We’re all on the same team.”

Holt sure hoped that was the case, though he didn’t know much about the tall, thin specter in a business suit and ankle bracelet.

Foster held up a hand for Holt to stop pacing. “Winchester, you might want to take a seat for this next part.”

“I’m good right here.” Holt paused by the door, anchoring his feet to the floor and folding his arms.

Foster announced in a deadpan voice, “The laptop in Jackson’s office is filled with long-range photos of Bonnie, Holt, and a half dozen other orphans adopted out by Real Sons.”

“Photos,” Holt repeated carefully. “Of Bonnie and me?” Yeah, he’d figured out that a long-range cameraman had been dogging their heels, but Jackson didn’t fit that picture. He frowned thoughtfully at the Yates family. “Does Jackson smoke?”

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