(Mr. Hargrove)
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the pile of paperwork on my desk. The office was quiet, just the way I liked it when I needed to think.
I glanced at the clock, debating if I had time to grab a coffee before my next meeting when my phone buzzed on the desk. The number flashing on the screen was one I’d been waiting to see. My private investigator.
“Talk to me,” I said, picking up the phone.
“I found her,” the PI said. His voice was calm, but I could hear the edge of satisfaction behind it. He lived for moments like this.
“Rebecca?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“That’s right. She’s at a small house on the east side of town. Looks like she’s staying low. You want me to handle it?” He asked.
“No,” I said firmly.
“Just give me the address. I’ll deal
