Page 67 of Final Vendetta

If someone had taken her — if they’dhurther — I would find them.

And I would make them pay.

I needed to think straight. Not let my emotions get the better of me. That was when people made mistakes. And there was too much at risk to make a mistake now.

Yanking my phone from my pocket, I called the one person who I knew would have a level head in this situation. Who always did, no matter what.

“She’s gone,” I blurted out before Henry could say anything in greeting.

“Slow down. What do you mean?”

“Imogene,” I replied, my voice tight with barely restrained panic. It killed me to even say her name. It took everything I had not to weigh myself down with guilt over this.

If I’d left my last meeting when I was supposed to, I would have been here. I could have stopped all of this.

“What happened?” Henry asked, remaining collected as always.

“I’ve been helping her pack up her townhouse, but when I got here, she wasn’t inside. The side door to the garage was open, so I figured maybe she was packing things up in there. When I went inside…” I swallowed hard. “I found blood. And no sign of Imogene except for her phone here in the living room. If she was safe…”

“Hang tight,” Henry interjected. “I’m pulling up the cameras now.” I could hear the rapid clacking of keys in the background. “Do you know what time she got to the townhouse?”

“I don’t know.” I paced the living room once more, feeling useless.

Every second I stayed here was a second wasted. Was another second whoever had Imogene could be taking her farther and farther away.

Could be harming her more.

“On non-game days, she usually leaves the stadium around five. I’ve been driving her and picking her up, but I had a meeting scheduled today, so she took one of my cars. I?—”

“Don’t put this on yourself,” Henry admonished. “That won’t do you any good right now. It won’t doImogeneany good right now. Okay?”

I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded. “Okay.”

“I’m sending a video to your phone from about thirty minutes ago.”

I put him on speaker, then clicked on the message as it came in with the link to a video.

The footage displayed a wide shot from the back of Imogene’s house, captured by one of the cameras. The garage stood to the right of the frame, its door closed and unassuming.

Within seconds, Imogene came into view, walking toward the trash bins with a bag in hand. She tossed it inside and turned back before stopping in her tracks. My heart hammered as I silently pleaded with her to keep walking. To continue into the house, even though I knew it wouldn’t happen.

After several long moments, she turned back toward the garage and slowly approached it. She pulled the door wide and walked inside.

I held my breath, waiting for her to reappear. Five seconds passed. Ten.

“Come on, Imogene,” I whispered.

Then a movement in the corner of the screen caught my attention. A man stepped into frame, emerging from the shadows of the backyard.

He was of average height and build, dressed in dark clothing, with a baseball hat pulled low, obscuring his face. He moved with purpose, his gait deliberate. He never once looked directly at the camera, as if he knew exactly where they were, making my blood run cold.

“Who the hell is that?” I demanded.

“I don’t know,” Henry replied. “He keeps his face completely hidden. My guess is he knows his way around surveillance. That’s not random.”

On the screen, the man made his way to the garage. He hesitated for a moment, then slipped inside.

I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to keep watching. But nothing else happened.

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