Page 68 of Open Arms

“Hello?”

“Mr. Bridges,” came the crisp voice of Mrs. Hargrove, the school secretary, “I’m sorry to bother you, but no one has come to pick up Abigail. It’s unlike Miss Beecham to be late.”

“Chloe didn’t . . .” My words tangled with a sudden surge of panic. Chloe was never late. A knot tightened in my stomach, cold and heavy. “I’ll be right there.”

“Everything all right?” Gray’s voice cut in, concern lacing his casual drawl as I ended the call.

“Abby’s still at school. Chloe hasn’t picked her up. Something’s wrong.” I bolted up from my chair, grabbing my keys in one fluid motion.

“Damn,” Walker muttered, already on his feet. “Let’s go.”

We piled into my truck, the engine roaring to life as I threw it into gear. The gravel spat and protested beneath the tires as we sped away from the ranch. Each tick of the dashboard clock hammered against my skull, echoing the escalating dread that something had happened to Chloe.

Despite the fear settling in my gut, it helped having my two best friends there. I knew I didn’t have to explain my worries to them. If Chloe didn’t show up and didn’t call me, then something was seriously wrong.

Through town, I wove between the vehicles with an urgency that bordered on reckless. Each stoplight was a red-eyed monster holding me back, and I cursed under each breath, willing them to change.

“Easy, Mason,” Gray cautioned as we skirted around a slower car, “we gotta get there in one piece.”

“Right,” I said through gritted teeth, easing off just enough to keep control. “I can’t think straight.”

Gray slapped a strong hand on my shoulder. “Abby’s safe at school. She’ll be good there for another two minutes. Drive to your place so you can look for Chloe and I’ll take the truck to go grab Abby. I’m on the pickup list, right?”

I nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude for Gray’s levelheadedness.

The familiar turn onto my street had never felt so long. Houses blurred past us until finally, my driveway came into view.

“Her car is gone.”

We skidded to a dusty halt, and I jumped out of the truck, leaving Walker to follow.

I heard Gray shut the door I’d left open and peel out, and breathed deep, knowing he’d get my baby home safe.

The front door hung open, a silent siren of wrongness that hit me before I stepped over the threshold. My boots clomped on the wooden floor, loud in the disquieting silence of the house. What should’ve been the comforting chaos of family life was now a landscape of upheaval—cushions strewn like fallen soldiers, pictures askew, their glossy smiles mocking the grimness of the room.

“Chloe?” The name fell flat, swallowed by the eerie stillness. Walker’s heavy tread followed me as we navigated through the disarray, his usual swagger replaced by a rigid urgency.

“Look at this,” I said, my eyes catching on a vase shattered near the fireplace, its flowers dry and trampled underfoot. “This ain’t no accident.”

“Definitely a struggle.” Walker’s voice was taut as he picked up a broken picture frame. “Guess she didn’t go down without a fight.”

“Help me look for something, anything that tellsus where she might be.” My hands shook as I righted an overturned chair, its legs scratching against the wood.

“Don’t touch anything, Mase. I’m calling the cops.”

“Fuck,” I screamed out.

I tore through the house, looking for any sign of her. I ran out to the cottage, but that was as pristine as it always was. Whatever happened, started and stopped in the big house.

“Hey, Mase,” Walker called from the open kitchen door, his tone lifting with a shred of hope. “There’s a note here.”

I was there in three strides, seizing the crumpled paper. But it wasn’t Chloe’s neat script—it was a scribble that just said ‘”it’s time,” hasty and jagged. Not her style. Panic edged into my veins, cold and sharp.

“You think it was sent here?”

“Had to be. She’s gotten a letter before. Said it was her father’s handwriting, but he’s . . . he’s not around.”

“Something ain’t adding up. If someone was sendin’ notes to her, then someone could have been targeting her.”

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