His phone rang, and Randall Lenz picked it up immediately. He’d gone to the family room in his home after consuming a cobbled-together dinner, figuring he’d watch some television while he waited for Dawson to get back to him, but he hadn’t been able to focus on much of anything. No, his thoughts had kept racing, circling back to those disjointed but vivid images — Connor and Angela Wilcox. Jake Wilcox. Adara Grant. A house that had seemed small but cozy and well-furnished. An Airbnb or other short-term rental?
Possibly. As with everything else, it seemed that every detail he latched on to only generated more questions.
Dawson’s voice came in his ear. “I hope it’s not too late, sir.”
The display on his phone had told him it was a little after eleven. “Not at all,” he replied. “Thank you
