Page 73 of Tides of Change
I shut the car door, rounded the rear of my Escape, and climbed into the driver’s seat, out of the rain. I quickly typed out a message to Ethan.
You okay?
I hit send and waited. Nothing.
I dialed his number. The phone rang and then went to voicemail.
Dread twisted in my gut.
I forced my hands to stay steady on the wheel as I pulled out of the driveway. I had to drop Noah at school first. I had to go to roll call. But the entire drive, my mind kept circling back to the smashed taillight, the silence from Ethan. Something was wrong. I felt it in my gut.
Noah chattered in the back seat, oblivious to the storm raging both outside and inside my head. I forced a smile when I kissed his forehead at drop-off and watched him run inside. The drive to the station was a blur. I barely registered roll call, barely heard my sergeant rattling off incidents that happened during the night shift, and assignments. The second I got the chance, I requested permission to perform a wellness check on a neighbor. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Finch had only damaged the car to mess with us.
But my instinct told me otherwise.
Rain lashed against my slicker as I climbed out of my Interceptor at Ethan’s house, and my boots splashed through puddles. The damage to his car seemed worse up close—a deep indentation with the taillight shattered completely. I doubted there would be any trace evidence left in this rain, but I pulled on a pair of gloves. I crouched and ran my fingers over the dent. Made by a blunt object. And still no answer from Ethan to my many calls. My stomach clenched.
I ran to the door and pounded on it. “Ethan!”
The door creaked open from the force of my knock. My breath caught. Unlatched and unlocked.
I stepped to the side of the door and pulled my gun. “Sheriff’s department! Come out with your hands where I can see them!”
No answer. I wasn’t waiting for backup, though I’d probably receive disciplinary action for it. But Ethan could be injured.
Or worse.
I peered around the doorframe and cautiously stepped inside. The home was eerily silent. I swept the house, room by room.
Nothing seemed out of place—until I saw his bed.
The sheets were rumpled, twisted, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. As if he’d planned on returning. My chest tightened.
“Ethan?” My voice was sharp, urgent. Still no answer.
Then I saw his phone on the nightstand.
He wouldn’t have left his phone behind. Not willingly.
I snatched it up. He’d given me his passcode when we’d switched phones during the stakeout. My fingers flew across the screen as I pulled up the security feed. I fast-forwarded through the night.
And my blood ran ice cold.
At four in the morning, the night vision footage showed Ethan stepping onto his porch. A shadow moved in from the side—then a blur of motion.
A long, blunt object connected with Ethan’s skull.
My breath left me in a ragged exhale. Ethan crumpled instantly, limbs limp, and his body hit the wet concrete of the porch. My grip on his phone tightened as I watched a figure step forward—Finch. He bent, grabbed Ethan under the arms, and dragged him off the porch, his unconscious body trailing down the rain-soaked walkway. They disappeared out of sight around the corner of the garage.
I scrubbed a hand down my face, and my stomach twisted. Finch had taken him.
I rewound and watched the footage again, scanning for clues. I focused on the long object in Finch’s hands.
Was that…an oar?
I fast-forwarded through the footage after the attack. Finch never passed in front of the house heading east, which meanthe’d headed west. Toward the coast. We’d concentrate the search in that direction.
I toggled my radio and called in the abduction, my voice taut. Dispatch confirmed that assistance was en route, ETA five minutes. I paced while I waited.
