Page 92 of Wildflower and Whiskey
For one second, I told myself he’d just carried him out to settle him. That maybe Braden had fussed, and Phoenix had taken him to the kitchen for a bottle. But the high chair was empty too. The lights were off. The coffeepot cold.
“Phoenix?” I tried again, louder this time. Still nothing.
The back door was open an inch, cold wind pulling at the curtain.
My stomach dropped and my world tilted out of focus, my worst fear playing in my mind, but I had to keep my wits about me and get to the bottom of this. Where was Braden?
I grabbed the monitor, checking to see the half battery life left, and stepped outside barefoot. The boards bit into my feet. The orchard was a wash of gray and shadow.
“Phoenix!”
A shape moved near the edge of the yard. For a heartbeat, I couldn’t tell if it was him or something else. Then he came into focus, tall, fast, a flashlight clutched in his hand, sweeping the trees.
He looked up when I called his name, eyes going wide.
“Get inside,” he said, voice low and sharp. “Now.”
“Where’s Braden?” I demanded; my throat raw. “He’s not. . .”
“I thought he was with you,” he said, already moving. He covered the ground between us in four long strides and grabbed my arm, steering me back inside. His chest was heaving. “You didn’t hear anything?”
“No.” My voice cracked. “I woke up. . . The door. . .” I felt like I was choking. Like the air had been sucked from my lungs.
He checked the door, his hands moving quickly on the latch. “Was locked when I left. Someone bypassed it.”
“What do you mean when you left?”
“I heard something outside.” He didn’t meet my eyes. “I went to check it out. I didn’t go far. Maybe thirty seconds. When I came back, the door was like this.”
I gripped the counter, trying to stay upright. “Thirty seconds?”
He didn’t answer. His phone was already in his hand, hitting speed dial. “Becket, it’s me,” he said. “Braden’s gone.”
The words didn’t sound real until I heard them spoken out loud.
I couldn’t breathe. My knees hit the chair behind me, and I dropped into it, hands shaking so badly I couldn’t even cover my face.
Phoenix crouched in front of me, his hand firm on my thigh. “We’re getting him back. You hear me?”
I nodded, but I couldn’t get the air out to say anything.
Becket’s voice was sharp on the other end, tiny through the phone speaker. “Stay put. Patrol’s en route. Lock the doors. Every window. Don’t go outside.”
Phoenix’s jaw flexed. “They were waiting. They took him fast. Door’s not broken, no glass. They had a key or a pick.”
“What if they hurt him?” I asked as the last words broke on a sob.
“Don’t,” Phoenix cut in his eyes hard. “Don’t go there. He’s alive.”
“How can you know that?” I was shaking from the inside out, as adrenaline surged through me like venom.
“Because if they wanted to make a point, they’d have left a message.” His tone was clipped, full of a terrible kind of logic that didn’t comfort me but somehow made sense.
The sound of tires on gravel broke through the air. Headlights flared against the window. Becket’s cruiser. Two others behind it. Phoenix went for the door before I could move.
Becket stepped in first, calm and deadly. “We’ll find him,” he said, scanning the room, already reading it like a map. He gestured to one of the uniforms. “Check the perimeter. Look for tire marks, footprints, anything fresh.”
Phoenix pointed toward the door. “It was open when I came back. No forced entry. They knew what they were doing.”
