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“Men,” she cries, but she doesn’t explain. “These men are after me, because of Marcus. Because he loved me and took care of me. Oh my God, Hannah. I miss him so much. Our home.”
“We can get you back home, I just need to find you.”
“No,” she hisses, almost venomously. “My home. With Marcus.” She sucks in a deep breath. “With the man I love.”
“Missy, where was your house?”
“I’ve got to go,” she says hurriedly. “I can hear them coming. Find me, Hannah.”
“Missy—” I growl, but a cold, harshclickfollowed by silence is all that greets me.
I stare at the phone in my hand for a moment, Missy’s words repeating over and over again in my mind.
They’re going to kill me.
“Fuck!” I curse, throwing my phone across the room and instantly regretting it. I rush to it, letting out a deep sigh of relief when I realize it’s not broken.
She may call back.
“What the hell am I supposed to do?” I repeat, looking up at the ceiling. What do you know? It’s pink, too.
But of course, it doesn’t answer.
My phone does, though, as another buzz against the hardwood floor startles me into scrambling to grab it.
A text.
You’ll never guess from who.
Unknown: I wonder why Mason Carpenter hasn’t told you about your sister’s finger ending up in his mother’s mailbox yet?
Unknown: Curious.
Unknown: Curious, indeed.
My heart bottoms out, reading the message, but it’s quickly replaced with revulsion when the picture comes through.
Because there it is. The mustache tattoo I always hated.
Only, now, it’s detached and lying next to a photograph of Missy, tied up. Gagged. Tears streaming down her face.
Unknown: Seems time’s running out.
Unknown: Tick Tock.
Hannah
As it turns out, Marcus Parker owned alotof property.
Mansions in three states, the Parker Estate in Malibu, a penthouse in downtown LA, abunchof warehouses and businesses, and one, smaller water-side home in Venice.
I know that’s the place, just from looking at the picture and once I use my mother’s system to locate Missy’s mailing address, I sigh in relief.
I’ve found it.
Step two is complete.
It’s a short trip from my house, but I’m not going alone because, well, that would be idiotic of me. While I really don’twant to ask Mason for help, he owes me after I agreed to completely revamp his books and fix years of accounting errors, which, might I add, date back to the early two-thousands.
