36. Declan

THIRTY-SIX

DECLAN

As I drive, I keep my voice steady, explaining to the guys what I've pieced together about Savion's past. His ex-best friend—no, that psycho—poured acid on him when he lived in New York. I hate talking about it, but they need to know. Without taking my eyes off the road, I toss my phone to Lennon, sitting in the front passenger seat. "Watch the video," I say, the words thick in my throat.

I hear Lennon's sharp intake of breath as he watches it. He doesn't say a word. The silence is enough. He hands the phone to Jazz in the back, who passes it to Lars after a moment, like they're holding something toxic.

We get to Savion's apartment faster than I thought possible. My chest tightens as I kill the engine. The four of us pile out, and everything in me screams that something's wrong—so wrong that I should wait for the police. But I can't. Not when Savion is out there, in danger.

The door is ajar.

I've watched enough Law & Order to know this is a bad fucking sign. Every instinct screams for me to back off, wait for the police to get here, but I can't. Savion's in danger, and I'm not waiting around.

Using my elbow, I push the door open all the way, the creak making my gut clench.

The second I step inside, my heart sinks. The place is trashed—clothes thrown everywhere, furniture overturned. It's chaos. I want to tear the whole apartment apart looking for clues, but I make myself pace, trying to keep my shit together. I promised myself I wouldn't touch anything. I dart from one room to another, but there's nothing—no sign of where he might be, no hint of Brock's next move.

"Jesus Christ," Lars breathes, stepping past me into the mess.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself not to touch anything. "Don't move anything. We wait for the police."

The others nod, though their tension mirrors mine. I want to tear the place apart for clues, but I've watched enough true crime to know how crucial it is not to mess up a scene.

Five minutes pass.

The police still aren't here.

"Damn it!" The frustration boils over, and I ignore my own warning, kicking a shattered piece of the table across the room. It smashes against the wall, but it's not enough. I want to break something bigger. The rage in me is a storm, and I'm drowning in it.

What if Brock came back to finish the job? My thoughts spiral, the images of acid burns flashing through my mind. I've researched every detail—how it scars, how it blinds, how it kills. What if this time, Brock came to kill him? The idea alone makes my chest seize. I can't survive losing someone again. Not like this.

I shouldn't have let my beautiful baby come here alone.

"Would he have taken him to New York?" Lennon's voice cuts through the chaos. He gestures to a photo of Savion with the Statue of Liberty in the background.

I stare at it, my fingers itching to touch the photo, to feel some connection to Savion. But I stop myself. No need to contaminate evidence, even though my gut tells me Brock's not that far. "No." I shake my head, still eyeing the picture. "He couldn't have gotten out of LA that fast."

"Yeah, you're right," Lars mutters.

I don't trust the police to handle this fast enough. They probably think this is a joke. We don't have time to wait.

Twenty minutes pass.

The LAPD arrives at last, lights flashing. Two officers, uniforms crisp but their expressions weary, step out of the cruiser. They've probably dealt with a dozen break-ins today already. One of the officers, a tall guy with a close-cropped gray beard and the kind of slow, deliberate movements of a man just shy of sixty, steps forward, sizing us up. They don't recognize us.

"LAPD. I'm Officer Daniels," he says, nodding to his partner, a blonde woman who looks a few years younger. "This is Officer Morales. We're responding to a call about a possible kidnapping."

"Who called it in?" the blonde officer asks, pulling out a notepad.

"I did," I say, meeting her eyes. "The apartment was ransacked, and my boyfriend is missing."

The officer's brow furrows slightly. "You have any idea who did this?"

I nod, then pull out my phone. "Savion's been sending—no, someone's been sending—videos from his phone. Threatening shit. Look."

I hand over my phone, and both officers lean in to watch the video. The room seems to drop in temperature.

The male officer's face hardens, his eyes narrowing as he watches. "Jesus," he mutters. His partner glances at him, her jaw clenched.

"You see what I mean now?" My voice is strained, a mix of anger and fear bleeding through. "We need to find him. Fast."

Officer Morales nods, snapping her notepad shut. "This changes things. We'll get a unit to start tracking his phone, and I'll alert the detectives on duty."

"But how long is that going to take?" Lennon cuts in, frustration evident in his voice. "We don't have time to sit around."

The male officer holds up a hand, trying to keep the situation calm. "We understand the urgency, but these things take time. We need to follow protocol. If he's been kidnapped, there are processes?—"

"He doesn't have time!" I snap, the panic rising in my chest. "Brock Turner—his ex-best friend—is behind this. He's obsessed with him. He's dangerous. We don't need protocols—we need action! If you won't do it, I will."

The officers exchange a glance. "Turner, you said?" The male cop jots down the name. "We'll look into him. We'll do everything we can, but you have to let us handle this. Going out on your own is going to make things worse."

"Handle this?" Jazz cuts in, his usually calm demeanor fraying at the edges. "You guys are telling us to wait while our friend is in danger?"

Officer Morales steps forward. "We're moving as fast as we can. Believe me, we want to bring him home safe. But we need solid leads, not just a name." Her tone is firm but not unkind.

I shake my head, jaw clenched tight. "Leads? You have the video. You know who it is. What more do you need?"

Officer Daniels gives me a long look, a sigh escaping his lips. "Look, I get that you're upset. But vigilante moves will only make this harder. If you interfere, it could jeopardize the investigation."

Their words do nothing to ease the growing tension in the room. I can feel the frustration rippling through my bandmates, and I know they're thinking the same thing I am.

"Thanks for nothing," Lennon mutters under his breath.

The cops exchange looks before the female officer nods. "We'll do everything we can," she says. "Just... stay put."

I take the warning for what it is—empty advice. I don't trust them to handle this fast enough. My bandmates don't either. I can feel it in the room, the restless energy between us.

The officers leave us with promises that feel hollow, their squad car lights flashing briefly before they drive off.

As soon as they're out of earshot, I turn to the others. "We're not waiting around. Savion doesn't have that kind of time. We need to find him now ."

My phone vibrates, and my pulse spikes. The guys crowd around me as I check it. Another message from Savion's phone. Another goddamn video.

I press play.

Savion's half-naked, his clothes ripped off. My vision blurs, my stomach twisting. I drop my phone like it's burning me, and Jazz barely catches it before it hits the floor.

My fists clench, and I yank at my hair, pacing like a caged animal. Savion's out there, and I'm stuck here. Helpless. The anger in me is too much, like a beast clawing to get out of a cage. I slam my fists against the steering wheel of my car when I make my way back to it, needing to move, to do something.

"What now, man?" Lars follows me into the car, worry clear on his face.

"I don't fucking know!" I growl, the words heavy with helplessness. "I'll search every goddamn inch of LA if I have to." I can't stand still. Not with Savion's life hanging in the balance.

Jazz shoves the phone back into my hand. "You need to see this."

It's a text. From the psycho. My heart hammers as I read the message.

If I can't have my golden boy, no one can. I loved him first. He's mine. Fucking MINE. *winking face emoji*

Lars reads it over my shoulder and shudders. "What the fuck? He's deranged."

My blood surges. My hands tremble. "We have to move. Now."

Jazz, ever the calm in a storm, glances at me in the rearview mirror. "I know someone who can help."

We all turn to him. Jasper—the guy the fans call McSizzle for his wild stage presence and ridiculous charm—has connections. But beneath that rockstar persona, he's loyal, dependable. And right now, I need him.

"There's a guy I know," Jazz says. "He can track phones. Fast."

I grip the steering wheel tighter. "Where is he?"

Jazz doesn't answer, just grabs my phone and starts typing. A few seconds later, he looks up, his gaze locking with mine. "We've got this, Dec. He's gonna help us."

I nod, the knot in my chest loosening just a fraction.

We sit in tense silence until my phone pings. Jazz's friend has traced Savion's phone. Malibu.

I floor the gas, not caring how fast we're going. Malibu's an hour away. I pray we get there in time.

"Call Lieutenant Wallace," Lennon says suddenly. "He promised he'd help if we ever needed it."

I'd completely forgotten about the guy—the deputy sheriff who calls himself our biggest fan. He's been trying to get in with us ever since we met him at an event. Sav and I ran into him in a restaurant a few weeks ago, though. I never thought we'd actually need his help, but right now, I'm willing to try anything.

Lennon gets him on speaker, and after a brief explanation, Wallace is on it, promising to meet us there with backup.

As the miles fly by, I keep praying under my breath. Please, let him be okay. Let us get to him in time. I need more time with him. I only have one painting of him—I want a whole gallery. Please, God. Don't take him from me.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles white.

I love you, Savion. Just hold on. I'm coming.