Page 8 of Girl Lost
Police cruisers pulled into the driveway. Time to go. She headed for the back door, grabbing her purse from the sofa on her way. She had every right to be here. Stryker had practically begged her to come. But explaining to the cops why she was snooping around while he was missing ... That was a conversation she wanted to avoid.
Luna stepped outside just as heavy fists pounded the front door.
Stryker’s boardwalk began where the grass met sand. She followed the narrow wooden slats that snaked through tall sea oats and spiky sea grapes. A flock of seagulls scavenged for scraps near the trash cans by the boardwalk entrance.
The beach, deserted except for a lone jogger and her dog in the distance. Good. At least something was going her way.
She slogged through the soft sand down to the water’s edge and started jogging. The public beach access where she’d parked her rental car out of sight was a good mile down the coast, but she needed the time to shake loose the thoughts in her head.
By the time she reached her car, her chest ached. Years of living in an arid climate had taken a toll. The humidity was like breathing through a wet wool blanket. She hit the unlock button on the key fob, yanked open the door, and practically dove inside, where a blast of heat hit her. The Florida sun had turned the car’s interior into a sauna. She cranked the engine, set the AC on high, and settled back to wait for the arctic air to reach her.
Okay, so she’d struck out at Stryker’s. She hadn’t been able to get into his computer, and she was no closer to understanding who took him or why. A daylight kidnapping. Witnesses. It was brazen, almost theatrical. They were sending a message. But what message? Was it connected to her past with the CIA, or something else entirely?
She glanced at the clock on the dash. 12:15 p.m. She should head back to the diner. Talk to Corbin. Demand a role in the investigation.
But how could she explain her sudden return? Her involvement in all of this?
No. She couldn’t go back there. Not yet. Not until she had a better understanding of what was going on.
The confetti from the Taser ... that was a start.
The anti-felon identification dots scattered out by the dozens every time a Taser cartridge deployed. Under a magnifying glass, the dots revealed a serial number that pointed to the cartridge’sorigin. From there, she could trace the name of the purchaser—and maybe even their location.
Problem was, she couldn’t exactly walk into the Millie Beach Police Department with evidence taken from a crime scene and ask for a favor. And right now, she was just a civilian with no badge, no gun, and no authority. The cops would trace the AFIDs, eventually. But “eventually” might be too late for Stryker.
And there was the risk of another accidental reunion with Corbin.
Langston could help. But he wasn’t happy with her. Not after she’d turned in her resignation. She pulled out her phone and typed the number from memory. Her thumb hovered over the call button. Should she do this?
With a deep breath, she pressed the screen. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
Each ring brought a fresh wave of dread. What was she going to say?
“Dough Bro’s Pizza, this is Sandy. Will this be pickup or delivery?”
“Delivery.”
“Got it,” Sandy said. “Address?”
“444 Fox Lake Drive, Clinton, North Carolina.”
“Very good. Can you verify the last four digits of your credit card number?”
Luna gave her the numbers.
“Perfect. Now, what can we get for you?”
“One large supreme with extra olives.” Her stomach growled at the thought of food.
“Okay, let me put you on hold for one moment.”
The line clicked several times while the Agency verified her identity.
“Langston.” Deputy Chief Harris Langston. Ten years of working together, and he still hadn’t lost that hard edge.
“It’s me, sir.” She squinted one eye, waiting for the quiet disapproval that was somehow worse than yelling.
He harrumphed. “Thought you were off finding yourself.”
