Page 161 of Mess With Me

“It’s not safe,” one of the new ones yells in my face. This one’s a woman.

I don’t know if it was having a mother who took charge of everything or my bossy sister or what, but I stop fighting. My throat’s choked. “Please,” I croak. “Tell me if she’s in there.”

“It doesn’t look like there was anyone home,” she says calmly. She’s strong. Her elbow is on my chest, next to someone else’s knee. “But we won’t know for sure until—”

“Griff,” a voice from somewhere behind them calls out.

Ford. “Let him go!” Ford shouts. “Griff, she wasn’t in the house!”

Relief clogs my throat, my heart pounding harder than it did racing over here.

The crowd around us clears, and a few of the guys who were holding me down get me onto my feet.

“I went to your friend’s next door,” Ford’s breathing hard. “The old guy you told me about. Griff, your truck’s there, with her stuff in it. It’s the only vehicle there.”

My mind blurs with questions. Did they leave together? Why would they take Chester’s car?

But I only ask one. “Where are they now?”

“Come on.”

I mumble an apology to the firefighters as we run back toward the road. Ford leads me through the mess of trucks to where he’s parked his rental. “He said he drove here after her, but she wasn’t there when he got here. Then his phone crapped out.”

My phone rings then, and I grab it out of my pocket, my heart in my throat. It’s Cass.

“Anything?”

“I haven’t heard from her. But Griff, my staff just informed me about something you might want to know about. There was an altercation in the parking lot. Someone said they saw someone get taken in a van tonight.”

“Sasha?”

“No, a man. A guest. The witness had been drinking. They thought they were making it up. But I checked our registration. Got security to run all the cards and license plates—Griff, it was her brother. He’s staying here, under a pseudonym. Sam McLain.”

She explains what happened this morning with Sasha’s brother. How he came to warn her that something was happening.

He’s got them both. Creelman—or someone working with him—has both of them. I know it in my bones.

“Did they get the plates?”

“Partials.”

I point my chin at Ford. He pulls out his phone, tapping out the digits I give him.

“If you hear anything, tell me right away,” I say.

Ford’s already racing back to his car, where he pulls his laptop out of his bag.

“Ford!”

“Checking local PD.”

I run my hands through my hair, feeling completely defeated. We already alerted my contacts at the department to watch the highways. Nothing’s been reported yet.

Fucking think, Griffin.

Where would someone take two people they wanted information from? Because that has to be what they’re after. Either that or a reward for bringing them in. They’d want to keep them close until the heat died down. Wouldn’t they?

I look back at my place—or what’s left of it. Then down the road toward Chester’s.

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