Page 38 of Haunted

“You want to play games, asshole? Find someone else?” I slammed the receiver down in the cradle.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Noah yelled.

“He called me Calvin. No way will he let me have the last word.” I glanced at Nelson. “Did you get an address?”

“He’s bouncing the signal off cell towers all over the East Coast.” He shook his head. “But I can tell you the call originated from somewhere in Huntington.”

“Keaton,” Sammy called out. “He’s back on the line.”

“Stay cool,” Noah warned. “You’re in control.”

I’d taken a huge risk by hanging up the phone when I did, but one thing I’d learned in my years in the FBI was sometimes risk led to the greatest rewards. At least that’s what I was telling myself, rather than the truth. I panicked.

“Special Agent Clarke,” I answered for the second time.

“That was very foolish, Calvin. It makes me think you aren’t taking me seriously. Maybe I should introduce myself to that gorgeous creature you were mauling in the parking lot last night.”

The line went dead and I saw red. I heard a thunk as the earpiece hit my desk, but everything else was hard to decipher over the roaring of blood in my ears.

Motherfucker!

“Keaton?” Noah approached my side.

“Got him,” Nelson’s shout pulled me back to reality. “He’s on the east side of town. Motel 6.”

Standing abruptly, I snagged the jacket from the back of my chair and raced out the front door of the FBI office, Noah right on my heels.

“Call Lanie and Koen. They’re closer to Henley than we are. Tell them to drop whatever they're doing and get to her fast.” The SUV door unlocked the second I touched it, thanks to the key fob in my pocket. Looking over the roof, I growled, “This motherfucker had eyes on us last night. They aren’t to let her out of their sight.”

We climbed inside and after a brief call in which Noah laid out my orders, he gripped the door handle when I made a left out of the parking lot, going in the opposite direction of where my heart desired.

“Where the hell are we going?”

“Hunting.”

“Even if we dusted every inch of this place, we’d never know for certain which prints belonged to our killer.” Duncan pinned me with his signature glare as I paced the hall outside.

Noah and I had arrived at the motel and tracked the cell signal to room nine twelve. Circumstances being what they were, I hadn’t waited for management to give us a key before I kicked the door in. It was empty except for a cheap burner lying in the middle of the bed and another message for me.

“Maybe not,” I spun, returning his scowl. “But at least we’d have somewhere to start.”

“Listen, kid. I know you’re pissed?—”

“I blew straight through pissed an hour ago, Duncan, when he threatened Henley.”

“Then put your anger to good use.” He took two steps forward, putting us almost nose to nose, then poked me in the chest with his finger. If it were anyone else, they’d have found themselves flat on their backs after a move like that, but not Duncan. He’d saved my ass more than once. “Think like the federal agent I trained you to be.”

I was struggling and he knew it; concern was etched clearly in his pale blue eyes. He may not have been there when the shit hit the fan, but he was there for the aftermath and everything since.

“What’s the deal with the anniversary card?” Noah disrupted our stare-down, coming to stand beside me.

The son of a bitch wanted my attention? Well, he had it and then some. First the room number, then the goddamn card. The twisted fuck was toying with me.

Nine fucking twelve.

September twelfth.

Also known as the day my life went straight to hell.

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