Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Where do I go? Who do I turn to? Most people would probably go to the police, but most people aren’t semi-homeless teens who recently took money to attend a very sketchy sex party. I may not have hooked up with anyone, but the last thing I want to do is get Kenzie arrested.
But if she’s in trouble, the only way I can help get her out is by finding someone with more power and reach to help me.
Suddenly, I remember what Jack said last night. If I’m ever in trouble, I can turn to his friend.
I didn’t tell Jack where I live. If it’d been Nashville or Memphis or anywhere else, the name he wrote down wouldn’t be able to help me. But as fate or luck or whatever the hell you want to call it would have it, Jack’s cop friend works here in Knoxville.
I scramble into the bathroom and grab last night’s dress from the hamper. I shake it, and out falls the folded piece of paper Jack had given me. The paper itself is a little crumpled, the writing a tad faded from sweat, but I can still read it.
Caleb Larkin, Knoxville PD
Maybe this is a terrible idea, but I’m all out of options.
Breathing deeply, I push up from the bed and start sifting through the wreckage for my purse. I can’t find it. As I sort through the bedding, I realize Kenzie’s purse is gone too, as well as our phones.
The driver must’ve stolen them. Which means, I have no money. Kenzie has no money. If she tries to call my cell or text me her location, he’ll know exactly where she is.
“Fuck...” I rake my fingers through my hair and start to rock in place. With any luck, Kenzie’s somewhere hiding. Scared, but safe. Then again, Kenzie and I have been a lot of things over the years, and lucky is rarely one of them.
I force myself to take a deep breath, and then another. I tell myself I can do this. I don’t need money to walk to the police station.
Jack said he trusts this cop, and even though we barely know each other, I trust Jack.
I need to find Caleb Larkin. Fast.
Chapter Eight
Caleb
Lieutenant Isaac Harris hauls me into his office the second I arrive at the station. Before I can even park my ass in a chair, he’s on me.
“What the hell were you thinking going to Russell King’s house last night?”
I clear my throat and take a moment to settle in. Having worked with Harris for going on six years, I know bad news tends to go down smoother when I give him a moment to breathe.
“Sir, I had reason to believe that—”
He slams his fist on the desk. “You’d better have a damn good reason for sneaking into a private citizen’s residence.”
“I was informed by a CI that Russell King would be trafficking women and minors for sex at his mansion in Morristown. I obtained entry to the event—”
“Illegal entry.”
“It was hardly the only illegal activity taking place in that house.”
“Be real, Larkin. You don’t expect me to believe Russell King’s pedo palace was the target last night.” He eyes me over steepled fingers. “You went there looking for the reverend.”
There’s no point in trying to bullshit him. Harris is as sharp as a razor, and he’s been following the case alongside Abby and me since the beginning. When it became clear that we might be dealing with some big-name perps, he told us to tread lightly. Don’t stop looking, but don’t provoke.
Last night was an undeniable provocation.
“Oddly enough,” I say, “the reverend never showed.”
“Maybe he wasn’t in the mood.”
“Or maybe someone tipped him off.”
He cocks his head. “Your CI?”
“Possibly, but I doubt it.”
Lieutenant Harris pushes at his receding hairline. This is hardly the first time he’s brought me in for this conversation. The further I get with this case, the harder it is to make progress without stepping on a senator’s toes, which says a lot about how high up the chain the corruption climbs in this town.
“Have any young women or girls from last night’s party been reported missing?” he asks.
“Not at this time, but if the reverend wasn’t there, I doubt we’ll be seeing one this month—”
“And if one does turn up, what then?”
I squint. “Sorry?”
“If a body turns up, and it matches the profile, but doesn’t point to the reverend, what then? See this is the problem. You’re so focused on one suspect that it blinds you to everything else.”
“What else?” I ask. “What evidence have I ignored?”
“How about all the evidence that points to Russell King himself?”
I shake my head. “King’s a bastard, but he’s no good for it.”
“Based on what? The drug-induced ramblings of a traumatized teenager?” He’s of course referring to the victim who was found barely alive in a patch of woods behind a quarry lake in South Knoxville. She’d been badly beaten and choked. Hands tied, just like the others. Yet, by some miracle, she’d survived the attack.