“McKinnon . . . Yes. Let him up.” He ends the call and gently brushes my hair back. “Lachlan’s here,” he tells me, and I groan, not wanting to get up.
A couple minutes later there’s an abrupt knock on the door, and when Declan opens it, Lachlan rushes in.
“I’ve got it,” he announces urgently, holding a sheet of paper.
“What is it?” I question, standing and walking towards him.
He comes straight to me, passing Declan, and hands me the paper. “The passenger manifest.”
“THIS COULDN’T HAVE gone any better,” the PI that I hired a few days ago tells me.
“Were you able to plant the device on him?”
“Even better. I followed Stroud from his hotel to a residential building. It wasn’t long before he emerged right out the building’s front doors with a woman. I trailed them as they walked to a department store,” he recounts as I sit in my derelict cubical and listen. “The woman was in the fitting room when he became distracted with a phone call. As soon as the woman walked out to the shopping racks, I figured her phone would have to do since I didn’t see a way to get to Stroud’s. It only took thirty seconds to find her cell phone in her purse, pop out the SIM card, and replace it with the tracker SIM.”
“Why the fuck do we care about some chick? You were supposed to plant it in Stroud’s phone.”
“This is when you’re going to thank me,” he says with a bout of pride. “I pulled the data stored on her phone, and that woman is Archer’s daughter.”
“He has a daughter?”
“Elizabeth Archer. She is exactly who we need to be following. It has to be her who’s looking for Archer. I looked into her, and it seems she went straight into foster care when Archer was arrested.”
“Holy shit,” I murmur in astonishment.
“I say we keep quiet and allow her to lead us to our point of contact.”
“I agree.”
“I’m now adjusting my surveillance off Stroud and onto the daughter. I’ll call you with any updates.”
HOURS HAVE PASSED since Lachlan delivered the passenger manifest, and I’ve already completely scoured it. My heart sank a little when I didn’t see the name Steve Archer. I knew his name wouldn’t be on it, but all reasonable thought had vanished in that moment.
Declan immediately pushed Lachlan out when my emotions started getting the best of me. I tried to rein it in as best as I could since Declan is under the impression I’m taking the prescription that’s supposed to help these stress-induced meltdowns. But I couldn’t deafen myself to the piercing ring in my head. It was painful and sent me into a mild panic.
After I calmed down, Declan suggested I take a break, get a good night’s sleep, and revisit the manifest in the morning. But I can’t do that. My father is on this sheet of paper, I know it, and I can’t sleep until I find which name is his.
Sitting in Declan’s office while he’s sleeping in the other room, I continue to enter in each name into a people-finder database. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for to guide me in one direction or another, but I jot down any information that pops up for each male passenger. There were one hundred and twenty-two men on that plane. One hundred and twenty-two different paths to follow, but only one will lead me to my dad.
This particular flight was based out of a large hub in Dallas, so the plane is comprised of passengers from all over the States. I star the ones that have a home address in Illinois, but truth is, he’s most likely somewhere else if he’s hiding out.
My eyes strain against the glow of the laptop in the dark room, but I keep going, entering in the next name: Dennis Lowery
“What are you doing?”
Declan’s voice startles me, and when he flicks on the lights, I shield my eyes for a moment as they adjust to the brightness.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He walks over to me, rounding the desk to see what I’m up to, and when I look up at him, he’s annoyed.
“I told you to wait until the morning.”
“I know, I—”
“What? Want to give yourself another anxiety attack, because let me tell you something, that episode you experienced earlier . . .” His words falter, and I can tell how much my panic attack affected him. “You can’t treat your body like this. You’re worn down and sleep deprived.”
“Then help me, because I won’t be able to sleep knowing that I’m holding his name in my hand. The last time I was this close to him was twenty-three years ago. How am I supposed to sleep? How am I supposed to be patient?”
Raking his hand through his sleep-tousled hair, he releases a heavy breath and succumbs to my eagerness. “Will you start a pot of water for coffee?”
Relieved and grateful for his help, I jump up and let him take a seat, then head to the kitchen to fill the kettle and grind the beans for the French press. I move around the kitchen and gather a few things for the coffee tray. When the kettle whistles, I pour the water into the glass carafe and over the grounds.
I walk back into the office and set the tray down on the desk.