HAYDEN
The city lights blur as I cut through traffic. My knuckles are white on the wheel, and the speedometer is kissing 85 in a 50 zone. I don't care. The Aston's V12 is screaming, but all I hear is the blood pounding in my ears. I should have checked the messages sooner.
I should have f*****g checked.
Three unknown numbers messaged me earlier. I saw the first one pop up while I was still in the elevator leaving the office, and I stupidly dismissed it as spam. The second came while I was on the phone with security. I ignored it again. The third arrived when I was already in the car, the tires squealing out of the garage. I didn't open any of them.
I should have.
The fourth message—the one I finally tapped open at a red light—nearly made me vomit on the leather.
It was from Rachel. I
