“You have what you want. Let us go.” Miguel slumped against Lane’s shoulder. Salty tears blurred her vision. “He needs to go to the hospital.”

“In a few minutes, it won’t matter.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

“YOU THINK THEY KILLED MIGUEL? That’s why we can’t find him?”

“I don’t know.” Charlie clenched his jaw, his hand gripping the steering wheel. “But I think it’s safe to assume anyone connected with Annika Benedict is in danger.”

Charlie’s cell phone rang. It was Sheriff Huggins.

“Frost and I were just about to call you with an update.”

“Are you still in Savannah?”

“About ten minutes outside.”

“Charlie, we can’t get ahold of Lane.” The sheriff’s serious tone sent Charlie’s heart plummeting to his stomach. “I sent Byrdie to check on her after what happened at the courthouse and she said Lane seemed good. But Charlie . . . I’ve answered a suicide call or two and it almost always happened when the family thought the person was good.”

“Do you think she’ll try—” Charlie couldn’t finish the thought. His mind went to the week before Tate ended his life when, just like the sheriff said, everyone believed he’d gotten over the hump and was on his way to recovery. The temporary lucidness in his friend’s eyes was just enough for him to plan everything, down to the note he left behind.

Sheriff Huggins exhaled. “I just don’t know.”

Charlie didn’t want to believe what the sheriff was suggesting. Not Lane. Not this time. “Has anyone tried calling her?”

“There’s no answer. Her father went to her house and found her phone there.”

Charlie’s heart wrenched inside his chest. He looked over at Frost—the jumping bridge. “Sir, Frost and I are going to search the area along Coastal Highway. I’ll call you if we find anything.”

“What’s wrong?” Frost asked as soon as Charlie ended the call. “Where are we going?”

“The jumping bridge.” Charlie accelerated, unwilling to let his thoughts dwell on the possibility of what Lane might be doing there. He hoped his uncle’s fears were wrong. “Nobody can find Lane.”

Frost gripped his seat belt with one hand and used the other to grab the overhead handle as Charlie flew down the interstate at speeds that scared other drivers out of his way. The inky black night was illuminated only by the headlights of the patrol car, which turned the draping Spanish moss that Charlie once thought was beautiful into menacing tendrils with every tense minute that passed. He finally slowed when they got to the narrow stretch of road a mile or so away from the bridge.

“What’s that?” Frost pointed at something shining a few yards in from the trees that lined the road.