The Missing

to his job, was adding to the grief and terror.

    “But I’ve had it with this. Jillian has been missing for five hours. Have you done a damn thing to find my baby, or are you going to grill me for another five hours?”

    “Mr. Morgan—”

    The agent’s patient expression cracked as somebody new intruded on the scene. Cullen sized him up as another fed in about three seconds, although the man’s suit was a little more pricey than what his associates wore. Armani, Cullen knew, and he figured it cost what some agents made in a month. The shoes were Italian leather, and somehow the agent had managed to keep them relatively clean as he made his way through the sand. He had perfectly groomed hair and a smooth, even tan. Considering the blond hair and blue eyes, Cullen was willing to bet the man’s tan came from a bed rather than being outside. The new guy didn’t much look like the outdoor type.

    There was also something vaguely familiar about him, but Cullen was so sick of agents, he couldn’t think straight. “Great,” he muttered as he stomped away from the agents, not stopping until he reached where the sand gave way to pavement. He stared at his car, wondering if, by some miracle, he could climb in and drive, just letting his gut lead him to his daughter.

    But while he had decent instincts, they were just that. It wasn’t a gift. He had no way in hell of finding Jilly on his own. There was a flash, a flicker of knowledge dancing just at the edge of his mind, like the first sparks before they gave way to wildfire. Even as he tried to reach out and wrap his mind around it, somebody came up from behind. He turned to meet the steady, congenial gaze of the new agent.

    He had friendly eyes and the kind of face that most people would trust. Cullen wanted to hit him until that understanding left his expression. The bastard couldn’t understand. Voice harsh with fury, Cullen said, “I can’t do this again. I have to do something.”

    “The only thing you can do is work with us, Mr. Morgan. Look, why don’t we go sit down inside? Management has given us use of their offices. We can cool down a little, get something nice and cool to drink—”

    Cullen slashed a hand through the air. “This isn’t a barbecue. I don’t give a damn about cooling off or getting a damn soda. I want to do something to find my baby.” His voice cracked again, and Cullen knew he had to get out of there, had to do something. “Oh, God.” He covered his face with his hands and sent up another desperate prayer. He hadn’t prayed since before his mother had died and he hadn’t set a foot in church. But he’d do whatever God wanted if He would just bring Jilly back safe.

    “I know this is hard. I can’t imagine the hell you have to be going through right now.”

    Something in the man’s voice had Cullen looking back at him. He dropped his hands and said flatly, “No. You can’t imagine it. So do something to help me, damn it. What are we going to do to find my daughter?”

    THE bastard, Special Agent Jones, made Cullen go through it another three times. When he finished detailing his afternoon and explaining, “No, I don’t have any enemies that I know of, and I can’t imagine who could have done this,” he looked at the agent and said, “Now do you want to know what I ate for dinner last night and what kind of pajamas Jilly wears?”

    With a pleasant smile, the agent murmured, “No. That isn’t necessary.” He flipped through a rather official-looking file, pausing here and there. “You’re a writer. Perhaps you have a rather devoted fan . . . ?”

    Cullen shook his head. “I don’t have much of a relationship with readers. I don’t even have an address where they can write me.”

    “You never do signings or anything?”

    Cullen curled his lip. “I’m sure you have all of that information in your file there.” A rather impressive file, considering the short amount of time that had passed since the FBI had shown up on the scene. It felt like years had already passed, but it had only been a few hours since that panicked, terrified call from Kelly had come in. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged on it absently, thinking back to the Q and A he’d done in Lexington a month or so back. It had been right after their trip to Atlanta. “I do a few signings a year. Yeah, I have some persistent readers, but nothing stalkerlike that I can think of.”

    “What about your dad? He’s a successful