Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
“Good point.” Monty scowls. “It can also be a psychological thrill for this guy. The risk of getting caught is an adrenaline rush.” He turns back to his notes on the wall. “I don’t want more communication from him, but we need it. We need something. The investigation is going stagnant.”
“What are we missing?” I lift the book of Pushkin poems. “Someone put this and the flight logs in Rurik’s house, and the stalker knows about them. There’s a connection we’re not seeing.”
“I agree.” Monty rolls his lips. “I gave Wilson a list of everyone who’s familiar with the estate on Kodiak Island and their connection to it. We need to retrace those threads, no matter how thin.”
“Feels like we’re always a step behind and looking in the wrong direction.” Leo paces the room, chewing on his thumbnail. “It’s like the bastard is dangling red herrings to distract us.”
“He’s toying with us.” Monty looks up, his gaze steady. “We need to be thorough. Every detail matters.”
“I want to hunt.” My fingers flex and release.
“We tried that,” Leo says. “We can’t hunt until we know who we’re hunting.”
“I hate feeling useless.” I let out a grunt of frustration. “Frankie’s out there, risking her life, and we’re stuck here chasing shadows.”
“We’re doing everything we can. We’ll find him. Then we’ll deal with him.” Monty holds my gaze. “The Strakh way.”
The conviction in his tone sets my shoulders. I can’t fucking wait.
I just hope we’re not too late.
We spend the rest of the day picking through clues, making phone calls, and touching base with Wilson. Monty is relentless, driven by the need to protect us all and find the answers.
“Someone out there has a motive.” Monty slumps into the couch, exhaustion edging his voice. “A motive that set this into motion a long time ago.”
Wilson has been painstakingly crosschecking the handwriting on Wolf’s photo against the handwriting of those on our suspect list. So far, there have been no matches. But our suspect list is incomplete.
He’s still pulling names from Rurik’s incriminating ledger. Monty knew it would take an unreasonable amount of man-hours to scrub hundreds of pages of accounting entries, but it’s been three months. It’s taking too damn long.
“What about Alvis Duncan?” Leo leans over the table, reading through our list of suspects. “He kept tabs on Denver for decades. Maybe he knows more than he’s let on.”
“Wilson checked his handwriting, too. No match. And he hasn’t left Whittier in years. He’s a recluse.” Monty frowns. “But we need to dig deeper. Maybe he can identify the stalker?”
“Tell Wilson to send photos of every person on our suspect list to Alvis Duncan. If one of our suspects collected the flight logs from him, he’ll recognize their picture.”
“You’re right.” Monty grabs his phone and makes the call.
It’s late when we finally surrender to exhaustion, retreating to Monty’s bed. It feels empty without Frankie. None of us can sleep, the chill of her absence tormenting us.
She sent us messages throughout the day, updating us on the chaos at the hospital. Her urgent demands to remain where we are only makes the fear more unbearable.
Sprawled on my back between them, I stare at the ceiling. “I miss her already.”
“Me, too.” Monty pats my stomach and leaves his hand resting there. “But she’s strong. She’ll be okay.”
“She’s a fighter,” Leo mumbles.
In the middle of the night, Monty’s phone rings.
He jolts up in bed and answers on speaker. “Wilson?”
“Alvis Duncan is missing.”
“Missing how?” He tenses.
We all go still. No one breathes.
“Don’t know yet,” Wilson says. “I couldn’t get a hold of him, so I sent James up there to Whittier. Alvis and his wife are gone. No signs of packing up. No indication of a struggle, either. But their dinner was still in the oven, burnt to a crisp by the time James arrived.”
The news knocks the wind out of me, leaving me reeling.
Alvis never leaves Whittier. Maybe he had a family emergency.
Maybe he’s the stalker.
Questions whirl through my mind, each one more troubling than the last.
The unease grows as we stare at Monty’s phone in the dark. The connection is there, just out of reach, and we’re running out of time to find it.
“And, Monty…” Wilson lowers his voice. “Frankie’s phone had spyware on it.”
58
Frankie
—
The hum of fluorescent lights does little to ease the mayhem as the hospital teems with patients.
My heart pounds as I rush from one bed to the next, donning and doffing PPE and leaning into my training.
My bodyguards are never more than a few feet away, a constant reminder of the other danger lurking outside these sterile walls. When we arrived twenty hours ago, I tossed them masks, demanding they wear them. They didn’t argue. They know better.
“Frankie, we’ve got another one!” Nurse Letty’s voice slices through the frenzy.
I nod and head to the trauma unit, where a middle-aged woman struggles to breathe. Her skin is pallid. Sweat beads on her forehead, and fear shines in her eyes.