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33
Cole
"Sir? Mr. St. Martin?"
"What?" My voice was strained and snapping. The tech was interrupting. Decker was explaining the search.
For once a tech didn't back down. "There's a message alert."
So the fuck what? Fleet, about the day spa. Or –
I took the laptop. I didn't recognize the email address. I recognized the subject line. Erin Trace. If someone had her, if someone had figured out who and what she was?
I didn't hesitate to bring up the email but there was an eon of time to dread what the message would be.
It was from her.
Not relief. Some kind of dread. Fear that something had gone wrong. Not right.
The message blurred in front of me. I blinked, making my eyes focus.
She was in the very hills we were searching. The timestamp was minutes old.
She was alive.
