Dad Bods and Blizzards (Dad Bod Christmas #1)

11. Eleven

Eleven

Griz

Tire tracks snake across the fresh snow as I turn onto our driveway. My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“Even you drive better than that, Griz.” Tubs leans forward over the bench seat, the concern in his voice more prominent than his playful jab.

Woody shifts in the passenger seat. “Only Lazovski knows Naomi’s here. Why would he—”

“He didn’t. There’s only one set of tracks… leading away.”

Rounding the corner, we all see it at the same time. Our plow is gone.

Our shared concern that Naomi left doesn’t have to be stated out loud. And if they’re as crushed as I am, they’re equally unable to talk or unwilling to admit we might have been played. We left her alone with confidential case information because our emotions clouded our judgment—and we didn’t know where else we could keep her safe.

Woody and Tubs are already bailing, heading for the front door as I hit the brakes too hard, and the truck slides on the snow and ice.

I enter the darkened house a few steps behind them. Occasional glimpses of orange glint in the embers of the fire. The blizzard blots out any chance of sunset adding a warm glow to the room.

“Little Lamb?” My voice echoes through the coldness. It’s not just the lack of decor. It’s the lack of her presence that leaves the cabin vacant—my life incomplete.

“The keys are gone.” Tubs comes back from the kitchen.

That rules out someone hot-wiring and stealing the truck. If only she’d waited. We plan on giving her keys, even had a nightingale keychain made for her. The frivolousness of our plan hits with full force.

“No note. No explanation.” Woody returns from checking the bedrooms and bathroom.

He stops beside me at the office door and reaches for the handle—locked. Woody retrieves the key tool from the top of the doorframe, hands shaking as he inserts it into the handle.

The door swings open. Everything is in place.

Woody runs his fingers through his hair. “Why would she leave?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” I return to the living room, to the couch, and pick up the blanket she’d wrapped herself in. I hold it to my face. Her fruity rose perfume lingers amongst her musky natural scent. “If her father got wind of who we are…”

“That could explain the emergency meeting about bumping the raid up,” Woody says.

“That would have been an important detail to mention.” If our team intentionally withheld that information, they’ve learned that we got too close. They may consider us compromised.

They’re not entirely wrong, but we don’t buy into their stance that Naomi is involved, and we’re not about to risk her getting taken in with her father. Supposedly, it’s simple—we’ve amassed a solid case, and the higher-ups are ready to move in.

“Unless they found out we bought her in the auction.” Tubs has the same concern as me. He has his phone out, dials, and puts it on speaker. While it rings, he continues, “We have to find Naomi.”

Dennis answers, sounding even more stressed than when he told us he needed more time to get the money to pay for the weapons shipment. After the first missed deadline, we asked what collateral he could put up. We never thought he’d offer Naomi.

I tease the point to see where Dennis’ head is. “About that deal you offered us with your daughter…”

“What about it?” Too much tension.

“Does it stand?”

“Uh… sure… yeah…” He’s bluffing.

I press for more. “Great, we’re on our way.”

“You gotta give me a second. She’s out with friends.” His tone is unconvincing.

Woody pops off, “We’ll give you one thousand two hundred seconds.”

Tubs hangs up. Neither he nor I are going to do the math; that’s Woody’s genius, but I’m guessing that’s how many seconds it will take us to drive to her house. With unspoken synchronicity, we’re in the truck again.

I say, “She cannot be at her house when the raid goes down.”