“No. It just reads that it’s an exclusive. The alert said that the site would broadcast their findings at midnight.”
Good to know that a high-priced private investigator couldn’t find him, but some crap entertainment website could.
“I just knew you’d want to know,” he said softly.
“Thank you Frank. I appreciate it. I’ll handle it from here.”
“Is there anything—?”
“I’ll see you at seven. I’d go straight home, tomorrow will be a mess. No detour to the Blackfinn.”
He nodded once and stepped out, barely concealing his disappointment. He was obviously giddy with excitement to gossip with the other staffers still at the bar. They’d lean in, ties loosened or hair let down after long days at the hill. How did she react when you told her, Frank? Was she pissed?
Yes, Kate thought, sitting back in her chair. She is pissed.
A familiar twist came from her stomach. Do you know yet, Anne? I should call you, right now. He’s your son, after all. I know you and Chris must have been agonizing this year, and Brian and Greg too. Once Mom finds out, she’ll be so upset. Or is this just part of a plan—
No. Keep your distance. That’s the past. Focus on the present.
Her fingers toyed with the handle of her right-hand desk drawer. She pulled it open, fished around under a sea of pens, and found the business card, stashed where she’d put it a year ago, when she’d thrown the disgusting man out of her office.
She held up the card.
Flynn Hallow. Agent. Division of the FBI.
The rest of the FBI had no interest in locating the grandson of a deceased senator, who had vanished again, this time of his own accord.
As much as she hated it, she picked up the phone, quickly dialing the number. It was near midnight. There’s a chance he’d be asleep—
“Hello?” came an extremely alert voice, full of phlegm, which immediately broke into a cough.
“This is Senator Kate Roseworth. I’m assuming you’ve heard the news?”
“Of course. We dispatched our agents as soon as it came out. It’s good that you called—”
“It’s actually not.” She pivoted in her chair. “I don’t want to be making this call. I don’t want you to think I want anything at all to do with you. If this call is being recorded, I’ll have you sued. Let me remind you we are a two-consent state. And I do not give my consent. But I think you know what this phone call means.”
“I do.”
“I want this contained. Do you understand? I don’t want to see him on the news. I don’t want to see my family interviewed. I don’t want there to be a single dose of coverage beyond the fact that he was found. And more importantly, I want him safe. Can you absolutely guarantee to me that you can contain this and bring him in?”
“We will do our best, Senator.”
“This is all off the books, Agent. Bring him in, and I’ll meet with your director. But if you botch this, then all bets are off. I want him unharmed. I don’t care if you have to scorch the earth around him, but I want my nephew brought to me.”
THREE
William swerved the Jeep so hard to the right that dust and rock billowed like the aftermath of an explosion beneath his tires. He slammed the gear into park, placing one foot on the rusted metal step outside the absent door to stand, leaning on the frame of the Jeep. He could barely see above the rows of cotton.
“Oh shit,” he muttered.
In the still dark hour of five a.m., he counted the lights of ten satellite trucks on the road before his trailer. Accompanying the massive white vans looked to be forty—no, fifty—cars. The top lights of the cameras revealed photographers lining the dirt road like paparazzi on a red carpet, along with a crowd of people, many holding signs. He watched as three vans more raised their masts.
William sunk back into his seat.
He pulled out the phone from his console and got online, grinding his teeth at the sparse Wi-Fi that meant the search bar moved at a crawl. Hollywoodextra, the reporter had called it, yet nothing came up for a television outlet. What did appear was a website.
He shook his head. Hollywoodextra.com is what she had actually said.
Everything in the media world has changed, his Aunt Stella had cautioned during her tutorials. TV will still wait and promote a story for days trying to build hype and ratings. But don’t think a camera crew is just for television anymore. If a story is big enough, it becomes all about clicks. Get it verified and get it online, get it on Twitter, get it on the app. Don’t waste a moment.
When the website loaded, it practically screamed the headline: “WORLD EXCLUSIVE: WILLIAM CHANCE’S SECRET LIFE IN ARKANSAS.” At the top of the accompanying story was an icon revealing it had been shared six thousand times—
From around the bend of the field behind him came the sound of tires tearing down the dirt road. The doors of the Jeep were still stored inside the trailer, along with his hat. There was no way to conceal himself from whatever news crew was approaching.
He turned to his console, hunching completely over and pretending to look for something. Please, please let that photographer not have gotten video of his Jeep for people to recognize it.
He almost exhaled in relief as he heard the car fly past. But then rubber squealed, followed by an abrupt U-turn. William jammed his key into the ignition, but the car had already pulled up directly beside him at a sloppy angle. The only way to drive past now would be to barrel through the cotton or hit the car itself.
He expected the bright call letters of a local station on the side of the car, or perhaps a generic Honda rented from the airport. Instead, the sleek curve to the roof, along with the vent just above the back wheel, made it apparent that someone was driving a $200,000 Porsche on the back roads of Arkansas.
The driver-side window rolled down. “Are you freelance? I’m trying to find the house where that Chance kid is living… oh crap.”
William fired up the Jeep, whipping his arm around the headrest of his passenger seat to back up.
“Wait, wait, I’m not a reporter!” The man threw open his door, squeezing through the narrow distance between their vehicles. It wasn’t easy for him, his husky build revealed in the tightness of his custom-made suit. A brilliant red pocket square practically glowed in the faint morning light.
“I swear to God, I am not a reporter.” For a big guy he moved fast, resting his hand on the soft top of the Jeep.
William clenched his jaw. He had to get in the trailer and grab the essentials and his stash of cash or he wouldn’t be able to even afford the gas to get out of town.
“I hate the media, they’re always on my ass too,” the man continued.
He couldn’t drive around the guy, and this was the closest he could get without being spotted. He looked over at the fields to his right and climbed over his stick shift, slipping out the opening on the other side.
“Hey William, seriously, I’m here to help. I’m a fan of your grandmother. I know she was telling the truth. The media can be a real pain, I know all about it. I’ll show you how to get past them—”
“I know how,” William said, jogging into the nearest row of cotton.
“Dude, these shoes are Italian leather! I’ll bust my pants trying to keep up if you’re gonna run like that!”
Exactly.
There was no doubt who the guy was, or at least which camp he fell into. The ones who sent his family bushels of letters; showed up at his high school soccer games, taking selfies as he walked by; stopped him in grocery stores and whispered, “I believe too.”