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“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.
“BP’s dropping. Get me more fluids!” I reach for the equipment, my gloved hands moving with practiced efficiency.
