“Why don’t you go back inside?”
I glared at him. “Why don’t you tell me where Agent Hart is?”
AJ wouldn’t have left me here. I knew he wouldn’t. There was a new understanding between us. One that transcended the hijacking. It was bigger than what happened in the farmhouse. I felt it.
“Those are not my instructions.”
“What are your instructions? I want to know. Exactly why can’t you tell me what I need to know? I’d like to see him. Now.”
I looked up when I saw another agent step from the elevator. He was wearing a dark suit like the first agent. Non-descript designs with crisp white shirts and black ties. His earpiece was tucked close to his hairline.
“Do you know where Agent Hart is?” I asked. Maybe he would be more helpful.
“Ma’am, that’s classified.”
“Classified?” My voice rose. “He is supposed to be here. Right here. You were here when he promised me that. I want to know if he has left the hotel. I want to where he is.”
“You need to keep your voice down,” he cautioned. I didn’t like how gruff his response was.
“Why? So the other guests at the Ritz-Carlton don’t know what you’ve done to one of your own agents? Where is he?”
They walked forward, creating a barrier between the hall and me. I was blocked from leaving the suite. I took an involuntary step backward. I was a lot of things, but being brave enough to charge two armed FBI agents wasn’t one of them. They were both twice my size. It pissed me off.
“You need to stay inside the suite, and when Agent Hart is done, you’ll know.”
“Done with what?”
“Stay inside.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I’m not a prisoner. I can leave. I need to get out anyway. I’m low on outfits. There’s a boutique in the lobby.”
Was it possible I could find AJ on my own? I just needed a way out of here so I could start looking.
“You’re not leaving the suite anytime soon,” the first
agent informed me.
“Says who?”
But neither was willing to answer my questions. The door was pulled to and I was left with a gaping hole of worry.
Chapter Eighteen
As soon as I spun on my heels and faced the empty bed, I noticed AJ’s phone on the side table. Shit. He didn’t have it on him. His drink rested next to it. I picked it up, inhaling the bourbon and melted ice. I had lost count of how many drinks I had consumed since we checked in. None of them seemed to warm or calm me. The buzz of toxic adrenaline still ran through my veins.
I walked to the window and looked out over the river.
I slid the balcony door open and stepped forward. Everything felt damp and humid after the storm. I couldn’t sit on the patio chairs. The cushions were water logged.
“What am I going to do?” I whispered to the river.
How did I know AJ was safe? How did I trust anyone from here on out? How could I have been so stupid not to put two and two together before I drove to Louisiana?
I took another look at the text.
Sydney, this is Ethan Howard. I thought more about our conversation about Cindy. I reached out to a friend we had in common at USC. He said she married after college and her last name is Harper. Sounds like she might be in a bad situation. I don’t know that he’s a good man. He gave me her last address. Maybe you can reach out to her and help her. Cindy doesn’t deserve something like this.
I blamed the lack of sleep. I blamed the trauma of the kidnapping. I should have seen the glaring clue that Ethan didn’t send that text. He never called her Cindy. It only took AJ one pass to pick up on it.