Page 101 of The Evening Wolves

A hand gripped his arm, squeezing tight, and North said, “We’re going to get him back.”

“I’ll call Jadon,” Shaw said. “He’s a detective with the Metropolitan Police.”

“I’m going to see if I can pull any records or filings for GLAM,” North said, squeezing John-Henry’s arm again. “Tean?”

“We’ll be ok,” Tean said.

John-Henry was only distantly aware of North moving into the living room. I’m doing it again, he thought. I’m sitting here, wallowing, feeling sorry for myself, while God knows what is happening to my son, and all I can think about is me, and about how I fucked up. North is doing something. Shaw is doing something. Jem is doing something. Tean is doing something—babysitting me. Even Emery is doing something; he’s not letting this paralyze him. I should be doing something. This is my job, I should be—

“John-Henry,” Tean said in his gentle, firm way, “you need to take a deep breath.”

The deep breath threatened to tip over into a sob. John-Henry took another breath, though, and he dug his thumbs into the corners of his eyes, and he took yet another. Think, he told himself. You’ve been trained to do this. Think. If North can find financial records, we might be able to get a hit off that—an address, something. If they took Colt’s phone, they won’t let him use his debit card either. Nothing that would leave a trail. That, John-Henry realized now in hindsight, was why Koby had been so ridiculously strict about the no-phones-or-photos rule at GLAM. It wasn’t about protecting the privacy of the teens there; it had been about hiding himself. Maybe Auggie would be able to find something on GLAM’s social media—

A possibility came like a lightning strike. John-Henry grabbed his phone.

“Farah’s not answering,” Emery said. “And the number I’ve got for Koby goes straight to voicemail. I want to call the Highway Patrol.”

John-Henry nodded as he tapped his way through Instagram. He found Colt’s account and did a quick check, but as he’d expected, Colt hadn’t posted anything since being dropped off at GLAM. Koby—or whoever was in charge—had probably fed them a line about bonding, or about focus, or who knows what. The same kids who wouldn’t give up their phones short of being murdered by their parents had probably willingly passed them over. Except—

John-Henry looked at Colt’s profile and tapped on his Following. He scrolled down until he found butterfly.ty. The infamous Ty, who broke Koby’s rules, who couldn’t put his phone down for five seconds.

The most recent post showed a multistory hotel lit by fluorescents. It looked modern, with polished steel siding and long walls of glass. An illuminated sign proclaimed it The Laclede.

“Holy shit,” Tean said.

From the other room, Jem called, “Swear jar.”

“You guys, John-Henry found them.”

Emery’s familiar steps hammered toward them, and he appeared in the opening a moment later. “You did?”

But John-Henry didn’t answer. He scrolled back in Ty’s timeline, scanning each post for what he was looking for. There were several furtive shots from Ty’s seat at the back of the bus. In a couple of them, Colt and Ashley were visible—laughing, their faces alight with happiness, having a great time on a trip that they knew was going to be fun. Those threatened to break him, so he scrolled past and kept looking.

He found what he wanted from almost a month back in Ty’s extensive—and exhausting—feed.

A photo from inside GLAM.

A man with a nametag that said Koby.

And when John-Henry recognized him, the audacity of it all was staggering. He’d been here the whole time. In plain sight. If they’d only taken the time to look.

Koby was a little shorter than average, with a leanly muscled build. Dark hair in a buzz. Dark eyes. And a ridge of scar tissue on his neck. He was the man who had broken into John-Henry’s computer. The man John-Henry had fought in Eric Brey’s house. The man who had almost killed Theo and Jem and who had come close to killing North and Shaw.

And now he had Colt.

23

“No, I don’t want to leave a message.” Emery fought the urge to slam the phone on the dash as they drove through the night. The officer on the other end of the call started to say something, but Emery cut him off. “Because I’ve left half a dozen messages. I’ve spoken to two different sergeants, and I’ve gotten the runaround from ten or so pissants who can’t seem to get it through their thick skulls that this is an emergency!”

Dead air met him on the other end of the call.

Disconnected.

Again.

Swallowing a scream, Emery pounded his fist against the Mustang’s door.

“Try again,” John-Henry said.

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