Mission: Without a Trace - Nicole Edwards Page 0,53
fear, Cori turned and peered up at the camera while they waited for the elevator. Not sure what else to do, praying someone was watching, she mouthed the words help me.
Unfortunately, no one did.
Chapter Eleven
The harsh ring of his cell phone roused Brantley from a deep sleep, had him rolling over, dragging the pillow over his head in an attempt to block out the sound and the light filtering in through the blinds.
A big hand smacked him on the chest. “Phone.”
“I know,” he mumbled into the pillow.
“Answer it?”
“It’ll stop.”
Only it didn’t. Damn thing kept right on ringing. One second there’d be blessed silence, then the harsh shrill sound would start again. He really needed to change that fucking ringer. Or better yet, put the damn thing on silent.
Tossing the pillow to the floor, Brantley threw out an arm, snagged the phone, and punched the button, not bothering to open his eyes.
“Walker,” he grumbled.
“Brantley. Oh, thank God you answered. We need your help.”
The agitated voice had sleep vanishing as he forced his eyes open, focused on the ceiling fan making a slow turn. “What’s wrong, JJ?”
“It’s Cori. Dante’s mom can’t get ahold of her. She went out last night with some of her friends, never came home. He called me. Said his mother’s freaking out. She thinks… Oh, God, Brantley, she thinks somethin’ happened.”
Sitting up, he came fully awake, dropping his legs over the side of the bed. “Calm down, JJ. Tell me what happened.”
While she rattled off more fear than details, the words managed to clear the fog from Brantley’s brain.
“And Dante called you?” he asked.
“He didn’t know who else to call. Asked that I reach out to you.”
“Okay. Where are you?”
“I’m at home. I told him I’d call you. Please tell me you’ll help.”
“Of course, yes,” Brantley assured her, because what else was he going to do? While he wanted to put Dante through a wall for the shit he pulled with JJ, it wasn’t like he could refuse to help the man’s family. “I’ll call him, give you a call back.”
“Okay.”
Squinting, he pulled up Dante’s number, which he’d logged a couple of months ago when he’d reached out to the man. He hit the button to dial.
Dante answered immediately. “I tried her cell phone,” he blurted, his voice trembling. “But it just rings. Says the voicemail’s full. Something’s wrong, Brantley. I know how much you hate me, how—”
“This isn’t about you,” Brantley bit out. “It’s about Corinne.”
“I know.”
“So let’s keep it that way,” he said. “Give me a few minutes and Reese and I’ll head over.”
“I’m with my mother,” Dante said quickly.
“At the governor’s mansion?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes.”
Fan-fucking-tastic. “Okay, fine. We’ll come there. It’ll be about thirty. Maybe forty-five. Keep your phone nearby.”
“Thanks, Brantley. Please help … my sister. You’ve got to find my sister.”
“I will,” he assured him, dragging his ass out of bed.
Reese was sitting up, watching him intently as Brantley disconnected the call, tossed the phone on the bed.
“Dante’s sister went out last night, didn’t come home. They can’t get in touch with her. Let’s get dressed. Head over there.”
Brantley marched to the bathroom. In order to wash the rest of the sleep from his brain, he opted for a quick shower. Ten minutes later, alternating in the bathroom, they’d both shaved, showered, and dressed, then headed out the door. He snatched his truck keys on the way.
Reese was silent, taking cues from him, getting into the passenger seat.
Brantley’s truck started with a rumble, followed by the scrape of rubber on gravel as he reversed onto the grass, then swung around and headed down his driveway. Neither of them spoke, nor did they bother with the radio, opting for silence as Brantley navigated through the small town on his way to the toll road that would take him into Austin.
Because it was Sunday and there weren’t too many cars on the road this early, it took only forty minutes to wind his way downtown. He pulled up to the governor’s mansion in what was likely record time, but probably felt like an eternity to the anxious family waiting inside. At the gates, Brantley flashed his ID at the guard, who gave him a bland smile before waving him through.
Unlike many visitors who traipsed across these grounds, Brantley and Reese weren’t there to admire the Greek Revival style architecture, the six twenty-nine-foot Ionic columns lining the front porch, the floor-to-ceiling windows, or even the priceless art and antique collections that were housed within the governor’s mansion.