The answering silence is painful, that moment on the edge where you know you’re going to fall but are helpless to do anything to fight it.

Please, let her be okay. I’ll do anything. I love her and I haven’t even taken her on a proper date yet.

My soul gasps like a living, breathing being inside me as the realization dawns, bright and pure.

I love Zoey Walker.

We haven’t gotten to know each other the way most people do, but nevertheless, I know her. Inside and out. I know her fears and her dreams, even the ones she tries to hide because she doesn’t think she can have them. I know her quirks and superstitions and would willingly, happily live in a damn log cabin if that’s what she wanted so that she’s surrounded by good-luck wood at all times.

I know her kindness and her heart, so full of love and generosity that she encircles herself with defenses, not for her own protection but for everyone else’s. And not despite it all, but because all of that makes up who Zoey Walker is . . . I love her.

Barnes’s radio crackles to life again. “Two females—one blonde, one Zoey. They’re down on the ground but alive. Zoey looks . . .” He pauses, and I feel the car rear back before jolting forward as Barnes, who was already nearly flying, pushes the speedometer even higher. “How far out are you?”

“Three minutes, tops.”

“Roger. Hurry.”

“Kid, when we get there, I need you to stay in the car,” Barnes tells me, eyes never leaving the road.

“Fuck no,” I snarl. “That’s my . . .” My what? My girlfriend? No, that’s not nearly enough.

My everything? Closer.

“Zoey. My Zoey,” I tell him.

His jaw works and his eyes tick back to me. “I hear you, son, but this is a police matter and I can’t be worrying about a civilian out there. Don’t get in the way of my doing what needs to be done to get her back.”

I don’t have a chance to argue because the radio crackles once more. “Can’t wait. Support when you arrive.”

The radio quiets.

“What does that mean?” I demand.

Barnes just pushes his car harder. “Buckle up.”

It’s the only warning I get before Barnes sends us airborne over a railroad track. We crash down to the road right in the middle of a pothole, and he jerks the car, taking a sharp turn. I slide all over the backseat, banging into the doors and trying to hold on to the cage between the seats.

Alver grabs the oh-shit handle and whoops like we’re out for a day of fun off-roading, “Whoo!” At least he warns me before the next turn, shouting, “Another one!”

“Brace yourselves,” Barnes orders, hands going white on the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock. “We’re going through.”