After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

“And then he got this text that he thought was from her. It came from an untraceable cell phone.”

Trent’s eyes seemed to bore into her and she shifted slightly.

“All it said was ‘I’m okay.’ ”

He waited, then asked, “That

’s it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The text could have come from anyone.”

“He’s convinced it was from Allie.”

“Someone’s just messing with him,” Trent said, taking a seat on the arm of the couch. He was close enough to touch her again, but didn’t reach forward.

“That’s what I told him.”

“Or he’s messing with you.”

“I suppose.”

“He could have sent the text to himself from a burner phone he bought. It wouldn’t take a genius for him to leave his real cell at his place, drive ten miles away, to like, oh, I don’t know, Oregon City? Then he could call himself so that if the police ever got involved, they could trace the ping from a tower there. They might think the message was legit. As long as no one saw him or his vehicle, he’d be home free.”

Cassie thought about the older Chevy Tahoe Brandon had been driving. Definitely not his style.

Trent added, “Or he could have had someone else make the call, then toss the phone into the river near the falls. The fact that he got a text from someone doesn’t mean it was Allie.”

“I know. I essentially told him the same thing.” She was finally starting to warm up.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that he lured you to leave, told you to not tell anyone, right? Why not go to the police? Why target you?”

“He knows I’m trying to find Allie.”

“So are the cops.” Trent’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either. But Trent, I can’t leave any stone unturned. And I can’t go to the police. Detective Nash already thinks I somehow had something to do with Allie’s vanishing act or . . . or whatever.” She closed her eyes and was suddenly dead-tired and angry as hell. “None of this makes any sense.” She just wanted to collapse and forget about everything. She felt as if she could sleep for hours, maybe even days.

“Hey,” Trent said. “You okay?” He took her hand and made a sound of dismay. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine.” She was still chilled but didn’t want to admit it. “Just a little wet.”

“A lot wet.” He smiled faintly in that heartbreaking way that always got to her, touched her at a very private level. Though not exactly Hollywood handsome, Trent Kittle was rugged-looking, almost rangy, his face interesting, his eyes sometimes distant, other times focused sharply, his nose no longer straight, if it ever had been.

He found a blanket on the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. The kind gesture nearly broke her heart. “You should go up and take a hot shower.”

“Sounds like heaven.”

“Just a sec.” His fingers wrapped around her wrist, pressing warmly against the skin just above her palm, touching the spot where she’d been scratched.

“What?” She tried not to concentrate too hard on his skin touching hers, but her mind was fractured.

“You should know that your friend . . . Rinko?”

“Yes . . . Rinko.” She silently cursed the breathless quality to her voice.

“You were right about him. He’s like some kind of genius when it comes to cars. Carter took the information Rinko gave us about the Santa Fe to some guy he used to work with at the state police.”