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RHYLAND
As soon as I made it to the apartment building, I took the elevator up to my penthouse. There were three police cars parked in front of it, and Row texted me that an Amber Alert had gone out with the car model and license plate of the vehicle Tucker rented a few hours before. Goddamn amateur stopped at Budget before breaking Cal’s arm and kidnapping his own kid. He really was committed to being a grade-A loser.
When I got home, I bolted to my bedroom, unhooking my iPad from its charger and bringing it to life. A few weeks ago, when Tucker began visiting Gravity regularly and before things detonated between him and Dylan, I’d inserted a tracking device in Mr. Mushroom. I figured if Grav was that attached to the little chub, she was going to carry it everywhere with her. The device had an advanced GPS map that was wired to satellite software, so not only could I see the location, I could even see the street.
I stared at the iPad as I clicked onto the app, watching it gathering information about the location of the stuffie and praying to high heavens it wasn’t going to show up in this building.
Please, baby. Tell me you took it with you when Tucker snatched you from your bed.
The map appeared on the screen, the red dot indicating the stuffie’s location blinking as it moved slowly past streets.
My shoulders slumped with relief. She’d taken it.
Attagirl.
The location showed somewhere in Brooklyn. The address pointed to a warehouse. I grabbed the iPad and took the stairs down to Dylan’s apartment. The door was open, the place swarming with policemen and detectives. Dylan sat on her couch, crying into her hands. Three women I didn’t know were standing next to her.
Actually, one of them I did know.
It was Tate’s PA. The one he was obsessed with.
But that was the last thing on my fucking mind right now.
“I know where she is,” I announced.
All eyes spun to me. I held up the iPad in my hand.
“Dylan, baby, please don’t kill me, but when Tucker started seeing Grav regularly, I put a tracking device in Mr. Mushroom. Behind the zipper that conceals the batteries.” Because of course, Mr. Mushroom vibrated.
“I don’t fucking care!” Dylan said impatiently. “Just tell us where she is.”
I handed the iPad over to one of the police officers. She studied it along with her colleague, then nodded briskly. She pressed the police radio to her lips and gave reinforcement the address and directions.
“Suspect may be armed and dangerous. Assaulted the young woman babysitting the child when he took her.”
Speaking of assaults, I was goddamn sure that as soon as Row touched ground in New York, he was going to kill Tucker six times over. The first time to make a point and the other five for what he did to Cal.
“I’m going there,” I announced to no one in particular.
“I’m coming,” Dylan said.
“I’d strongly advice against it,” the policewoman said.
“We strongly don’t give a fuck,” I answered in the same serious tone.
Dylan trailed behind me outside. We left her new friends in the apartment. The elevator ride down was silent, and so was the first half of the drive to the warehouse in Brooklyn. Luckily, there was barely any traffic.
Finally, Dylan spoke, her eyes still on her phone. “Poor Row is stuck on a plane. He can’t wait to get to Cal.”
“I’m sure.”
Silence.
“Do you think Tucker did something to my daughter?”
A wave of fresh fury drowned out my swirling thoughts, and my fingers tightened over the wheel. “No,” I answered, unsure if I was giving her the truth or my own wishful thinking. “He’s a lowlife who is incapable of making one decent decision, but he loves himself too much to get into that much trouble.”
“He needs to be behind bars after this,” Dylan said shakily.