Chapter 27

27

Mason

I was elbow-deep in paperwork, the numbers on the ledger blurring together until they looked more like hieroglyphics than figures. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes, and let out a sigh that had been building up since morning. It escaped as a wish—a wish for Chloe’s smile to break through the monotony of financial forecasts and breeding schedules.

“Thinking about her again, huh?” Gray’s voice cut through the silence of my office, his tone laced with a knowing chuckle.

“Can’t help it,” I admitted, grinning despite myself. “She’s . . .”

“Chloe’s what? Irresistible? Enchanting? The bee’s knees?” Walker sauntered in behind Gray, his smirk wide enough to split his face in two.

“Alright, alright,” I said, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. “I’m guilty as charged.”

It had been a week of pure bliss since that night at the hot spring where we confessed our feelings. And now that Abby knew, we’d been able to go public with everyone else too. It seemed like no one was surprised .

“I gotta say, it’s nice seein’ you so whipped, Mase,” Gray teased, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes twinkled with mirth.

“Whipped? Nah.” I tried to sound indignant, but my heart wasn’t in it. “Just . . . smitten.”

“Smitten?” Walker echoed, drawing out the word as he dropped into the chair across from me. “That’s putting it mildly. You’ve got it bad, buddy.”

“Like a lovesick puppy,” Gray added with a low rumble of laughter.

“Maybe I do,” I conceded, a sheepish grin pulling at my lips. “But can you blame me?”

“Chloe is special,” Walker agreed, his teasing tone softening just a touch. “You’re lucky, man.”

“Damn lucky,” Gray nodded. His rough exterior always gave way when it came to matters of the heart—something Eryn could take credit for, no doubt.

“Speaking of lucky,” I started, redirecting the conversation before they could rib me further, “how are things with Caroline, Walk? Still got you wrapped around her finger?”

Walker’s face lit up, a testament to how love had tamed Whittier Falls’ former playboy. “More than ever,” he confessed, not a hint of the sarcasm he wielded like a second language.

“Love’s in the air, then.” Gray pushed off from the frame and stepped into the room, a rare, softer look crossing his features. “Makes dealing with all this”—he gestured broadly at the papers on my desk—“a bit easier to stomach.”

“Guess we’ve all got our reasons to push through the daily grind,” I mused, my thoughts drifting back to Chloe’s light laugh, the way her blue eyes sparkled when she was happy.

The ring of my phone cut through the office quiet like a siren, jarring me out of the financial figures that had long since blurred into a meaningless sea of numbers. I snatched it from its cradle, glancing at the caller ID—Abby’s school—and felt my heart trip over a beat.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Bridges,” came the crisp voice of Mrs. Hargrove, the school secretary, “I’m sorry to bother you, but no one has come to pick up Abigail. It’s unlike Miss Beecham to be late.”

“Chloe didn’t . . .” My words tangled with a sudden surge of panic. Chloe was never late. A knot tightened in my stomach, cold and heavy. “I’ll be right there.”

“Everything all right?” Gray’s voice cut in, concern lacing his casual drawl as I ended the call.

“Abby’s still at school. Chloe hasn’t picked her up. Something’s wrong.” I bolted up from my chair, grabbing my keys in one fluid motion.

“Damn,” Walker muttered, already on his feet. “Let’s go.”

We piled into my truck, the engine roaring to life as I threw it into gear. The gravel spat and protested beneath the tires as we sped away from the ranch. Each tick of the dashboard clock hammered against my skull, echoing the escalating dread that something had happened to Chloe.

Despite the fear settling in my gut, it helped having my two best friends there. I knew I didn’t have to explain my worries to them. If Chloe didn’t show up and didn’t call me, then something was seriously wrong.

Through town, I wove between the vehicles with an urgency that bordered on reckless. Each stoplight was a red-eyed monster holding me back, and I cursed under each breath, willing them to change.

“Easy, Mason,” Gray cautioned as we skirted around a slower car, “we gotta get there in one piece. ”

“Right,” I said through gritted teeth, easing off just enough to keep control. “I can’t think straight.”

Gray slapped a strong hand on my shoulder. “Abby’s safe at school. She’ll be good there for another two minutes. Drive to your place so you can look for Chloe and I’ll take the truck to go grab Abby. I’m on the pickup list, right?”

I nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude for Gray’s levelheadedness.

The familiar turn onto my street had never felt so long. Houses blurred past us until finally, my driveway came into view.

“Her car is gone.”

We skidded to a dusty halt, and I jumped out of the truck, leaving Walker to follow.

I heard Gray shut the door I’d left open and peel out, and breathed deep, knowing he’d get my baby home safe.

The front door hung open, a silent siren of wrongness that hit me before I stepped over the threshold. My boots clomped on the wooden floor, loud in the disquieting silence of the house. What should’ve been the comforting chaos of family life was now a landscape of upheaval—cushions strewn like fallen soldiers, pictures askew, their glossy smiles mocking the grimness of the room.

“Chloe?” The name fell flat, swallowed by the eerie stillness. Walker’s heavy tread followed me as we navigated through the disarray, his usual swagger replaced by a rigid urgency.

“Look at this,” I said, my eyes catching on a vase shattered near the fireplace, its flowers dry and trampled underfoot. “This ain’t no accident.”

“Definitely a struggle.” Walker’s voice was taut as he picked up a broken picture frame. “Guess she didn’t go down without a fight.”

“Help me look for something, anything that tells us where she might be.” My hands shook as I righted an overturned chair, its legs scratching against the wood.

“Don’t touch anything, Mase. I’m calling the cops.”

“Fuck,” I screamed out.

I tore through the house, looking for any sign of her. I ran out to the cottage, but that was as pristine as it always was. Whatever happened, started and stopped in the big house.

“Hey, Mase,” Walker called from the open kitchen door, his tone lifting with a shred of hope. “There’s a note here.”

I was there in three strides, seizing the crumpled paper. But it wasn’t Chloe’s neat script—it was a scribble that just said ‘”it’s time,” hasty and jagged. Not her style. Panic edged into my veins, cold and sharp.

“You think it was sent here?”

“Had to be. She’s gotten a letter before. Said it was her father’s handwriting, but he’s . . . he’s not around.”

“Something ain’t adding up. If someone was sendin’ notes to her, then someone could have been targeting her.”

“It has to be her brother.”

Walker’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t question me.

“We need to talk to Ford.”

“Ford?”

“Yeah.”

Walker hesitated for just a moment, but then nodded. “Alright. I’ll get him on the phone.”

As Walker stepped away, the police arrived, and a flurry of activity began.

I paced the living room like a caged animal as the police combed through the house, taking items and dusting for prints. The sheriff, an older man with a gruff demeanor, asked me questions in a flat, procedural tone that grated against my raw nerves .

“When was the last time you saw or spoke with Miss Beecham?”

“This morning, around six thirty,” I answered tightly. “I kissed her goodbye before I left for the ranch. She was making pancakes for Abby.”

The sheriff scribbled in his notepad. “Did she seem distressed about anything? On edge?”

I shook my head, raking a hand through my hair. “No, she was her usual self. Happy. Excited for her shopping trip with Abby after school.”

“And you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary? No one lurking around or signs of forced entry?”

“Nothing until I arrived back here.”

“We’ll put out an alert for Miss Beecham and her car.”

I didn’t have a whole lot of faith they’d find her before I did but I nodded and thanked him.

The sheriff sighed. “Well, Mr. Bridges, I know this is difficult, but we’re going to do everything we can to find Miss Beecham. In the meantime, I suggest you take your daughter somewhere safe.”

I gritted my teeth, frustration boiling in my veins. I didn’t want to sit around waiting while Chloe was out there, scared or hurt.

Just then, Walker approached us, phone in hand. “I got Ford on the line. He’s willing to help.”

“Thank fuck.”

Ford Brooks made his living as a programmer, but what he really was, was a hacker of immense proportions. He grew up with us here, but moved away to California shortly after graduation. We’d been friends at one point, but that point was a long time ago.

Last time we saw him, we’d all gotten into a fist fight and had to spend the night in the county jail. I never thought I’d talk to the man again, but if anyone could look into Chloe’s brother, it was him.

And I knew that this all had to lead back to her brother.

Walker handed me his phone and I made it quick.

“Ford.”

“Mason.”

“Walker explain what’s happened?”

“Yeah, I’m up to speed. Tell me what you need.”

“Chloe’s real name is Katie Byers. She has a brother, birth name Jamie, or James, I guess. Look them up and you’ll find out the history.

“Already on it.” I should have figured. “Shit, man.”

“Yeah.”

“What I need to know is where Jamie is now. He changed his name years ago, and Chloe had no idea where he went. But I think he’s the one who took her. She received a call and a letter, both traced to?—”

“Chicago.”

“Shit, you’re good.” I hated admitting it, but it was true.

“Yeah well, we can’t all be cowboys,” he said over the sound of typing.

I ignored the jab because it wasn’t the time to argue, and it didn’t sound like he said it with much venom, anyway.

“What makes you think it’s the brother?”

“No one else makes sense. The father is on death row in Florida. And she swears the call sounded like her dad, but it makes sense her brother would have a similar sounding voice, right? Especially all these years later, it’s probably deeper than she remembers.”

“Makes sense to me. And I think I found him. Goes by Collin Novak. Been living Texas the past five years. Just took a flight from Dallas to Billings-Logan yesterday.”

“Fuck.”

“Sending you the info, including stills from the security footage. He rented a car . . . looks like a white sedan. Same credit card was used to book a cabin . . . aha. Fucking got him. Texting you the coordinates now.”

“Holy shit. Ford. I . . . thank you.”

“Anytime.”

The phone clicked off and I shook my head. I’d deal with the Ford thing later. For now . . . I needed to find my girl.