Riley smiles. “We have a year and a half to figure out our gift. We need to make it epic.”
I look up at him, tears filling my eyes.
“Don't give me those eyes. You will be back here for our senior year. Promise me.”
“I can't promise that.”
“No. Don't say you can't or you won't. Say I will be back for my senior year, Riley. I want to come back for my senior year.”
“I want to come back for my senior year, Riley,” I say.
And I mean it.
“Now, I think you should call that judge.”
“I don’t know his number.”
“Lucky for you, I already looked it up.” He takes my phone and enters a number.
“What am I going to say?”
Riley chuckles. “Tell him you took the oath of silence swore.”
“This is crazy.”
“Crazy is usually what works.”
“You’re right. Here goes nothing,” I say as I hit send.
A receptionist answers and asks if she can help me.
“I’d like to speak to Judge Waters.”
“I’m sorry, he’s not available. May I take a message?”
“Um, can you just tell him my name is Keatyn and that I took the oath of silence swore. Would you write that part down, please? It’s important.”
“Uh, sure, Keatyn,” she says, humoring me. “I’ll tell him that you took the oath of silence swore.”
I hear a deep voice say, “Silence swore?”
And the assistant goes, “Yes, sir.”
Then the deep voice goes, “Transfer the call to my office. I’ll take it in there.”
The assistant comes back on the line and says, “Judge Waters just arrived and will speak to you now.”
I’m put on hold, classical music playing in the background for a few moments until the deep voice says, “This is Judge Waters. Tell me the rest of it.”
“The rest of the oath?”
“Yes.”
“All who pass through Stockton’s door, take an oath of silence swore. In this place of legend and lore, party on, friends, evermore.”
“How can I help you, Keatyn?”
“I need a search warrant.”
“Are you an attorney?”
“No, sir. I'll try to keep this brief. I'm a current Eastbrooke student. My mom is Abby Johnston, and I was sent to Eastbrooke this fall because a man tried to kidnap me. That man was questioned by the police on August twentieth and released for lack of evidence. Later, I remembered that during the kidnaping, he said he was taking me to a van out back. They found the van—a rental with millions of fingerprints—with duct tape and drugs in it, but nothing leading back to the man. The man is rich and good-looking.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Vincent Sharpe. He's been obsessed with my mom for years and owns a production company.”
“Is he the guy doing the nationwide search for the next Abby Johnston?”
“Yes. He was trying to find me.”
“I see. What's the search warrant for?”
“He kidnapped my boyfriend, Brooklyn Wright—well, ex-boyfriend, but Vincent doesn’t know that. I pissed him off.”
“How?”
“On Monday, at his board meeting, I announced that I was the new majority owner of his company and fired him. He threatened me. Told me that no one I loved was safe. Our family dog was taken yesterday morning and Brooklyn has been missing since around eight last night. Vincent video chatted with me on Brooklyn’s computer. I made him prove that he’d taken Brooklyn; he turned the laptop around and showed me Brooklyn, tied up and lying motionless on a mattress. I have a screenshot of that, but nothing else. No proof that I spoke to him. We need to search his properties, but the judge turned us down for the warrant because we don’t have any proof and, according to him, I’m not credible.”
“Was the board meeting recorded?”
“Yes.”
“I’d say you go at the warrant from that angle. Submit a copy of the recording of the board minutes along with written statements from at least two of the board members stating they heard him threaten you. State that Brooklyn has been missing and is presumed to have been kidnapped. Include the screenshot. Then, have the warrant request sent to me. Do you have a pen? I’ll give you the fax number. We’ll be waiting for it.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, taking down the number. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Um, actually, there is. If they don’t find Brooklyn soon, I’m going against the wishes of my security counselor.”
“Who’s that?”
“Smith Security.”
“Garrett Smith is the best in the business.”
“I know. But he wants me to hide, and I'm afraid one of my little sisters will be next. Vincent told me to come home. If they haven’t found him by Saturday, I’m going home. If things don’t go well—like, if I don’t survive and he does . . . Please contact my family and help them put Vincent away for a very long time.”
“You have my word.” He gives me his private cell phone number. “If you come back to California, call me before you do anything.”
“Okay.”