Page 99 of The Followers

Liv squinted. The video feed jumped between angles, zooming in and trying to focus on the different faces. She wanted to scream in frustration. Jeremiah peered over her shoulder, craning his neck to get a view.

“What’s happening?” he demanded.

“I don’t know!” she said in a harsh whisper, trying not to wake Ella. “Keep driving—you’re going to run us off the road!”

After a few disorienting jumps, the video settled to a new view, opposite the fireplace. The entire room was visible now, and even though it was dark, Liv could see clearly.

Molly, sitting in one of the armchairs, rigid with terror.

Scott, standing a few feet behind her.

And seated in the other armchair, a man in the shadows. On his lap...

“He has Chloe,” she said, horrified.

“Can you hear anything?” Jeremiah’s voice crackled with panic.

She turned up the volume, enough so she and Jeremiah could hear but it wouldn’t wake Ella in the backseat.

“Sam Howard,” the man was saying. “Welcome home.”

At his voice, the camera switched angles to focus on his face. Liv sucked in a breath. He wore a black beanie, but Liv would recognize him anywhere:

“I know him,” she breathed. “That’s... it’s Kent Rasband. The detective.”

fifty-six

“I hate the term ‘followers’. They are my friends. My community.”

—Molly Sullivan on We Like,

a podcast for social media influencers

“Detective Rasband,” Scott said, his voice flat.

Molly startled at the name, but the man didn’t seem surprised. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Sam?”

Scott stood behind Molly, and she wanted to turn her head to look at him, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the intruder. His expression had changed when Scott entered the room, the malice he had hidden before no longer concealed.

“Why are you here?” Scott asked.

The man gave a sour smile. “Well, Sam, I can’t let a few past mistakes ruin an otherwise unblemished career.” His smile faded. “Where is it?”

Scott took a step forward, coming around to the side of Molly’s chair. Close enough that she could reach out and take his hand. But she stayed completely still.

“I don’t have it,” Scott said. His voice was steady, and she felt a rush of gratitude in the midst of her terror. He had shown up. He had come back for her.

“Bullshit.” Rasband’s eyes sparked with anger. “Should I shoot the dog? Or the little girl?”

“No!” Molly cried, leaning forward.

Scott’s hand landed on her shoulder, pushing her back against the chair. “I don’t have it with me,” he said. “It’s in my camper.”

“I searched that camper two weeks ago.” Rasband sounded irritated.

“Not well enough,” Scott said.

Molly’s phone, sitting on the coffee table between her and Rasband, buzzed.