David’s Door
Caden
I drove faster than I should have.
Aria had David Junior’s address pulled up on her phone, reading it out between the gaps where she was also texting him to stay calm, stay inside, don’t open the door. Her hands were steady even though I could feel the tension radiating off her in waves, the specific controlled fear of someone who had just gained a brother twelve hours ago and was now terrified of losing him before they’d even met properly.
“He says the car is still there,” she said. “Hasn’t moved.”
“Plate number,” I said.
She relayed the question. Waited. Read his response.
“He can’t see it clearly from his window. Dark sedan, tinted windows.”
Generic enough to belong to anyone. Specific enough to belong to exactly the kind of people Romano had employed for year
