Page 84 of Jenna's Protector

“Damn it, Jenna, pick up.”

I swipe to redial, pressing the phone to my ear as if sheer force of will can make her answer, but her voicemail greets me again.

I end the call and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. My stomach churns with a fear I can’t name. This isn’t right.

Something’s wrong. I feel it in my bones.

I clench my jaw and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, urging the car forward through the gaps in traffic. The lead, the case, the justice we’ve been chasing—none of it matters now. All that matters is finding Jenna, holding her, and seeing for myself that she’s safe.

I send up a silent prayer to a God I’m not sure I believe in, a desperate plea for the woman who’s come to mean more to me than I ever thought possible.

The car leaps forward as the traffic finally breaks, but the sick feeling in my gut only grows.

I’m coming, Jenna. I’m coming.

And God help anyone who stands in my way.

I pull up to her apartment, my heart pounding in time with the rapid-fire rhythm of my fingers on the steering wheel. The building looms before me, dark windows staring down like accusing eyes.

I’m out of the car before the engine fully stops, and the slam of the door echoes in the quiet street. The cool night air does little to calm the heat of my anxiety as I take the stairs two at a time, my footsteps a discordant beat in the oppressive stillness.

At her door, I pause, my fist raised to knock. A sudden fear grips me, cold and sharp, lodging in my throat.

What if she’s not here?

What if something happened?

Doubt swirls in my mind, a dizzying spiral of worst-case scenarios. I push them aside and knock, the sound harsh and loud in the silence.

“Jenna? It’s me.”

I strain my ears for any sign of movement, any hint of her presence, but there’s nothing. Just the heavy stillness and the pounding of my own heart.

I knock again, louder this time, more insistent.

“Jenna? Are you there?”

My voice sounds hoarse, even to my own ears, rough with a fear I can’t quite control. I press my ear to the door, hoping to catch a footfall, a rustle, anything, but the apartment remains silent, a tomb-like quiet that sends an icy shiver down my spine.

With fumbling hands, I pull out the key she gave me, the one for emergencies. It feels heavy and cold in my palm, a physical manifestation of the dread settling in my gut. I hesitate for a moment, torn between respecting her privacy and the overwhelming need to know she’s safe.

Need wins out.

I slide the key into the lock, the click of the tumblers sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. I push the door open, half expecting to see her standing there, a puzzled smile on her face, asking me what the fuss is about.

But the apartment is empty.

Dark.

The air feels stale as if it’s been untouched for hours. I step inside, my footsteps muffled by the carpet, and flick on the light.

“Jenna? It’s Carter. Are you home?”

I move through the apartment, a growing sense of wrongness prickling at my skin. There’s no jacket draped over the back of a chair. No keys on the side table.

No Max.

The fear that’s been building in my chest expands, seeping into every crevice of my being. I check the bathroom, the bedroom, and even the closets as if she might be hiding inside them.