CHAPTER 17
The small hand of the clock had turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees since Jackson’s collapse in the bathroom. He hadn’t heard from Officer Baker in hours, and the agony of silence was eating at him. He looked at his watch again, the eighth time since he’d woken up from the horrifying dream. It now said 4:39. The fact that it had been twenty-four hours since she disappeared was not helping his nausea.
Jackson paced yet again. He was shocked at how many steps one person could take within the walls of one small apartment. Dying of thirst, he took a bottle of water out of the fridge and sat down in Reagan’s painting chair. He tipped his head back, chugging nearly half the bottle before lowering it back down. The canvas she had started the day before remained on the easel
