Closing my eyes, I run my hand over my face. “Well . . .”

Shit. I have nothing.

His voice turns weary and resigned. “Just tell me where she is, and I’ll leave you to your baking.”

“I don’t know where she is. But I’ll find her. Talk to her.”

“Not good enough. I could almost let the rest go, but that watch means something to me. She’s gone too far this time. I’m asking the police for help.”

“Please.” The word rips out of me and burns on my tongue. I hate that I’ve said it. But I can’t take it back. “I’ll get your watch.”

I can’t let Sam go to jail. For better or worse, she’s my sister. And it would kill Mama. Figuratively, but I have a horrible fear that it might be literal as well. We lost our father last year, and our mother’s health is fragile at best. One day, I turned around to look at her and was stunned by how much she’d aged, as if my father had taken her spark of life with him. Sam and I are all she has left. Sadly, she’s always been overly protective of Sam.

“You have twenty-four hours; then I’m calling the police,” Macon says with a rough voice that speaks of impatience.

“Twenty-four? Are you funning me?”

“Do I sound like I’m having fun?” he shoots back.

“Well, I had to ask, what with the ridiculous time frame you’re proposing.”

I can’t possibly hear him grinding his molars, but I imagine he is. “That wasn’t a proposition,” he grinds out. “It’s a deadline.”

“This is LA, Macon. It takes at least twenty minutes to travel five miles in any direction. On a good day.” I let out a noise of pure annoyance. “Not to mention that if Sam is hiding out, she might not even be in the city. She could have hopped on over to Vegas, gone up to San Francisco, or even down to Cabo.”

All of them are favorite escapes for Sam. Not that I’ve been able to figure out how she can afford it. Hell, maybe she’s been a professional thief all this time.

“Point being,” I say tightly. “If you truly want to find her, you’ve got to give me more time than twenty-four hours. I’m not some female Jack Bauer, damn it.”

A strangled noise, like a protracted laugh, comes through the phone. “It almost would be worth the hassle to imagine you scurrying around the city with a countdown clock dinging over your head.”

A haze of red fills my vision. I swear, if he were in front of me, he’d be wearing a bowlful of flour. “Still an asshat, I see.”

“Still insulting me, I see.”

“You always were quick, Macon.” Shit, I need to stop taunting him. “Give me a week.”

“Two days.”

I snort. “Five.”

“Three,” he counters. “That’s the best I can do for you, Tot.”

My back teeth meet at the name. It isn’t much time, given the task. But hell, I don’t blame him for his anger or wanting this done. “Sold.”