Page 165 of Devil Mine

That possibility chills the blood in my veins.

After I hang up, I find myself praying for the first time in years. Praying that she left her phone in the other room and that I’m going to find her in her favorite spot on the living room couch, reading a book, lost to the outside world.

Praying that I didn’t put her in danger by letting her help me while leaving her vulnerable tonight.

Praying that she’s alright, that those big blue eyes will lift to mine and smile at me when I walk in.

But when I burst through the doors of our home, I already know that she’s not here. I can feel it. The air is too still. The silence too quiet. The walls too stiff, like they witnessed something they’re desperate to confess to.

“Tess!”

I scream her name, going from room to room, searching for her, refusing to believe what I know deep in my core to be true. My desperation grows with every empty room I find until it feels like my heart is going to crawl out of my throat and fall lifelessly at my feet.

There are traces of her everywhere. An open laptop on the living room floor. A dirty pan in the sink. A half eaten grilled cheese on a plate.

Her phone on the counter.

Dread wraps its tentacled fingers around my lungs and squeezes. I pick up the phone and the screen comes to life, reflecting a picture of us back to me. It’s a selfie we took last week; my forearm is wrapped around her shoulders, my lips pressed into her hair. She’s mid-laugh, giggling at something I said. I can’t remember what it was.

Seven missed call notifications sit just above her face.

Rage flames to life in my belly.

Someone took her.

I have to fight my own body to get through the haze of fury and adrenaline that sweeps over my body, murdering the rational part of my brain.

Think.

If she’s wearing her necklace, I can track her.

Sometimes she takes it off for bed. I send up prayers begging for her to still have it on.

I click the security app on my phone and the dot immediately beeps to life, bringing with it a small measure of relief.

Until I see where she is.

In the very same underground bomb shelter I took her to the night I killed Augusto Leone.

There’s no way she would have gone there by herself, not only because she’d have no way of remembering exactly where it was, but also because she has no reason to go.

And the only people who know about it and are still alive to discuss it are cartel members.

Dagny was right, she must have found the mole.

My breathing is uneven, my heart arrhythmic.

I don’t know how long she’s been there, how long they’ve had her, if I’m too late–

No, I can’t let myself think that.

She’s okay, she has to be.

I run blindly for the car, desperate to get to her, but her laptop on the living room floor stops me. There are papers strewn every which way around it.

I tap the mousepad and the screen comes to life.

There’s a password, but I know it.

---