Page 83 of From the Embers
She stared deep into my eyes, searching for the right thing to do. I was past all that. Bree wasn’t rash or reckless. She was too evenly measured to be fueled by desperate emotion. She was, however, my soul mate, the mother of my child—DNA be damned—and the smartest woman I had ever met.
Proof being: She got into the car.
BREE
“Don’t you fucking dare go over there!” Agent Garrett yelled so loudly that I wasn’t even holding the phone and heard it clear across the Tahoe.
“Too late. I’m already here,” Eason said, no fucks left to give. He ended the call and dropped the phone into the cup holder. It immediately lit with an incoming call, but it was safe to say Eason was done talking.
I reached across the center console and gave his thigh a squeeze. “Eason, honey. Can we just take a breather for a minute? It’s completely possible this guy has nothing to do with Luna.”
“This look like the neighborhood of an entry-level maintenance man to you?” he asked, following his GPS through manicured streets and charming boulevards we raced by.
No. It was safe to say it did not. This place was gorgeous, everything spread out unlike some of the newer neighborhoods in the suburbs of Atlanta where the houses were practically on top of each other. Large homes with sprawling, green lawns were set back from the street. Old-timey streetlights illuminated sidewalks and even a bike path disappearing into a wooded area. The houses weren’t quite as big as ours, but the neighborhood itself was impressive.
“Maybe his parents live here or—”
“Or maybe he bought it with the half million he got paid for lighting my house on fire and killing two people.”
My stomach wrenched. This was a theory he’d brought up while weaving through traffic on the way over, and I had to admit the timing of the payment seemed suspect as hell, but the police had never once considered the fire arson.
He was teetering on the edge of sanity, adrenaline spinning his mind in every possible direction. I understood. I was desperate too. But if I couldn’t make him wait on the police, I could at least talk him off the ledge of doing something that might drive us even further away from finding Luna.
“We don’t know that,” I told him. “And if you walk up to that door, slinging accusations, we may never know. I am behind you one thousand percent here. But emotions are high, and we can’t lose our focus. Steven Barton received money from the man who has Luna. All we need is a name, Eason. Save the rest of the interrogation for the cops.”
The hinges of his jaw ticked, and his eyes remained fixated on the road, but even with as pissed off and scared as he was, he knew I was right. “Look for eight-ninety-one,” he said, and it wasn’t an order or said with a bark, so I assumed I’d gotten through.
We pulled into the driveway of a brick two-story at just past ten. The porch light was on as well as several inside both upstairs and down, so if Barton was in there, we weren’t going to have to wake him up.
Eason was out of the car first, and I had to jog to keep up with him. He stomped his way up the stairway leading to a massive wraparound front porch. At least half a dozen white rocking chairs and hanging plants lined the front. Such a normal house to be standing in front of under such horrific pretenses.
My heart was in my throat as Eason rang the doorbell. I tried to play it cool, but his adrenaline spread to me as we stood there, impatiently waiting, hoping and praying this man could lead us to Luna.
After several seconds of nothing, Eason knocked hard with his fist.
“Easy,” I whispered, walking around the rocking chair to peer inside a window. Modern dark leather furniture decorated the living room as the local news flashed across a large flat screen mounted above the fireplace.
“Do you see anyone?” he asked.
“No, but the TV’s on.”
“Then someone’s got to be in there.” He rattled the doorknob, groaning when it didn’t give. “Fuck it. I’m going around back.”
“Eason—” I started to scold, a whole lecture about trespassing poised on the tip of my tongue, but it died before it ever made it out of my mouth.
Suddenly, a sharp cry sounded from the inside of the house, and I felt it hit my body with the force of a sledgehammer.
It wasn’t Steven Barton.
It wasn’t a man at all.
But there was no mistaking it. I would recognize that voice anywhere.
And I wasn’t the only one.
“Luna!” Eason bellowed, ramming his shoulder into the door.
A man’s broad back appeared as he ran down the hallway with our little girl dangling in his arms. Her honey-brown eyes collided with mine over his shoulder. I couldn’t hear her muffled voice, but the sound of her sweet “Bwee” played in my head all the same.
