Jesus fuck.

Sloane was going to be devastated. Straight up, to her core shattered.

“Where?” I clipped.

“Florida. Shep never had any luck running the plates of the members who were at the club the night she went missing because she was taken by helicopter. Marco’s cameras caught the tail number. Shep ran it and found the owner. I called in a favor and the FBI sent agents out. Her body was found buried in his backyard.”

“How long has she been dead?”

I wasn’t sure what the right answer was. Any amount of time meant she was still gone. But if it was recent, Sloane would blame herself.

“Long enough the body decomp was so bad they had to use dental records. They found two other bodies. One was bones, the other was fresh.”

“Jesus,” Cole spat.

“The FBI has notified Elise’s parents. I’ve also been in contact with them, explained the situation, and I asked them to let us tell Sloane. They agreed to wait for her call.”

Thank fuck Wilson had the foresight to contact the Kellers and ask them to hold off calling her.

“Appreciate that.”

“You know we all have her back,” Wilson proclaimed.

I glanced around the room and each of my teammates wore similar expressions. Even Jack and Davis who had never met her, but they’d have her back because she was mine. I’d never regretted or second-guessed leaving the FBI. But right then, seeing my teammates ready and waiting to pitch in and do what they could to lessen the unbearable pain Sloane was getting ready to endure only reinforced that I’d made the right decision.

“Appreciate that, too. I want to tell her alone. But I need Brooklyn, Sadie, and Letty on call.”

“Done,” Rhode and Reese said in unison.

“Before I go, is there anything else I need to know?”

“Our part in California is done now that Marco’s cooperating. Otis Craven was arrested last night. The FBI’s working him now. Hopefully, he flips soon. Will Evans is known to every three-letter agency, but no one’s ever been able to pin anything on him. Otis and Lorenzo are fucked—hopefully, one of them will turn on Evans.

Otis Craven.

Fitting name for a filthy, spineless motherfucker.

May he rot in hell.

“I’ll have my phone—”

“Off,” Wilson incorrectly finished my sentence. “Keep your phone off and take care of your woman. We’ll handle everything else.”

I let the gratitude I felt wash over me.

Then I left to break my woman’s heart.

“Are you gonna teach me how to putty?” Sloane asked.

I never knew there was a cowardly side to me. But looking at Sloane’s bright, happy face waving a putty knife at the wall in my living room, I almost said yes. There were approximately seven hundred nail holes that needed to be patched. I could spend the rest of the afternoon listening to her tell me all about watching Brooklyn narrate while we worked side by side. When we finished puttying, I could teach her how to sand the floor. Hell, I could put off telling her about Elise for at least six months.