I am too old for kiss-and-tell games. Trevor, my closest friend, never hears about my encounters.

“Just dinner, right?”

“Or more.”

She drags one foot over the other, causing the fabric of her skirt to tighten around her thighs.

“I’m asking for us to see where it goes.”

“Where what goes?” Her lips curve upward, but it’s not quite a smile. No, it’s a flirty tease.

“I’ve just got this hunch. And I’ve been trained to trust my gut.”

“And your gut is telling you we should go to dinner?”

I nod. She reaches for her hair, gathers it to one side, and her fingers weave the dark locks into a braid. Braiding her hair could be a nervous tick. Or maybe she’s buying time to respond as she weighs her options.

The hem of her shirt rises as she braids. She’s truly sexy as fuck, but if she’s only been around mild-mannered academics, it’s conceivable she’s clueless how beguiling she is. She flicks a piece of fabric off her wrist and straps it around the end of her braid.

I move on instinct. My thumb grazes the soft curve of her chin. She tilts her head up. I search those forest eyes for any hint of a response and sense an invitation. It’s in those widening pupils, the way her body leans closer, the flush in her cheeks, and her quick, short breaths.

My lips cover hers, softly at first. I pause, searching her eyes, hoping to confirm I read her right. She reaches up, and her fingers snake behind my neck and into my hair. She gently pulls me to her. My lips brush hers, and I close my eyes. The slow kiss deepens, and her body melds perfectly against mine. She tastes of mint with subtle hints of rich coffee. My skin tingles, and my heartrate jolts into overdrive. She lets out a soft moan that goes straight to my dick. I grip her bottom, pressing her more firmly against me. She molds to my body as if someone designed her curves specifically for me.

My phone vibrates in my shorts pocket, a little too close to my throbbing erection. With a groan, I break the kiss and reach for the offending device. I hold her close with my other arm as I check out the text.

Erik: The Sullivan video is spliced. Possible deep fake.

Alex leans to see the message as I reread it.

“Does he mean the security video? What does spliced mean?” she asks.

I weave my fingers through hers, breathing deeply, willing my body under control. I need to call Erik back and get to Arrow’s offices as quickly as possible.

“It means the video was planted. This isn’t a runaway case. It’s an abduction.”

End of Part 1

CHAPTER 12

113 Hours Missing

Ryan

On a typical Saturday morning, no one mans the front desk at Arrow, but this morning a young man sits behind the glass reception window. He stands as we enter.