Two in the morning and I’m woken up out of a dead sleep by my phone ringing. I grab it and see the call is from . . .

Mrs. Anderson?

I sit up, answering right away, and I can hardly hear her at first. There’s a garbled sound, men’s voices in the background, and is that a dog barking? Swear to God it sounds like Molly.

“. . . And then they think he took her! Right after he shot Lisa Swanson in the middle of the street! That’s what woke me up, the sound of gunfire, like it’s some sort of war zone out here,” Mrs. Anderson carries on.

“Hey, slow down, back it up.” I pause, push my hair out of my eyes.

“Will, your Katie is gone. Your father broke out of prison and they believe he kidnapped her again!” she yells.

My heart cracks into a million little pieces at her words. “What?” I croak, blinking hard. I need to wake up, I need to fucking focus. What is she saying?

“Here, talk to the policeman. He’ll explain everything.” She hands off her phone—I can hear her talking to Molly, telling her to stop barking—and a man gets on the line, identifying himself as FBI.

“Is this William Monroe?” the man asks.

“Yeah, I’m Will. Where’s Katie?” Fear clutches me hard, cramping my muscles, making my stomach hurt. If she’s dead, so help me God if my father is responsible for this . . . I close my eyes and hold my breath.

“Your father escaped. He complained of feeling ill and the guard was afraid he was having a heart attack. He even collapsed, but they were able to rouse him to consciousness. There was no doctor on duty since it’s a holiday weekend, so they decided to transport him to a local hospital.” The FBI agent pauses. “During the exchange into the vehicle he stabbed the guard with a concealed weapon, grabbed his gun, and used it to shoot at the other guard, hitting him in the stomach.”

“He escaped San Quentin.” I can’t fucking believe it.

“He went to Marin, to Lisa Swanson’s parents’ house. The mother discovered Lisa was gone, along with their Mercedes, and called the police. There’s an APB out for the vehicle now.”

“And what about Katie? How did he get her?”

The FBI agent sighs and proceeds to explain the story as best he knows it. Somehow my father gained access to the house and took Katie. For whatever reason, Lisa Swanson was shot and left for dead in the middle of the street. Just as Mrs. Anderson said, she called the police when she heard the gunshots and once she decided it was safe—yeah, how the hell the old woman knew it was safe, I don’t know—she went to Katie’s house. She found the door wide open and Molly sleeping on the bed. No Katie in sight.

And a dead Lisa Swanson in the middle of the street.

“Your father shot and killed Lisa Swanson,” the FBI agent reiterates. “We’re fairly certain he’s abducted Katherine Watts, considering she’s nowhere to be found.” His voice lowers. “We’re going to do our best to find her. You’re in Los Angeles? The neighbor told us that.”

“I’m leaving.” I’d already been roaming around the hotel room as the agent told me the story, gathering up my stuff and throwing it in my suitcase. “I don’t know how I’ll get my ass back there but I’m going to find a way. I need to find Katie.”

“Sir, we don’t want you to interfere in this investigation. Your father could be in search of you. You’re not safe—”

“Katie is the one who’s not safe if she’s with my father,” I say, cutting him off. “I can’t just stand by and wait for him to kill her. Because he will, trust me. He’s still pissed he didn’t get the chance the first time around.”

I end the call, tired of wasting my time. Methodically I change into jeans and a T-shirt, tug my favorite hooded sweatshirt over my head, and slip on my shoes. I have no idea what I’m going to do, how I’m going to get to Katie.

Collapsing on the end of the bed, I bury my face in my hands and just let the fucking tears come, my chest tight, my throat raw. Why can’t we ever be free? Why is my father so hell-bent on destroying us that he’ll break out of prison so he can hunt us down?

I lift my head and wipe my face, reaching for my phone once more. I hit my friend Jay’s number and he picks up on the third ring, sounding wide awake. Thank God for musicians staying up till all hours of the night.

“Tell me you have a connection to a private plane. Even if it’s some puddle jumper that’ll scare the shit out of me,” I say to him in greeting. “I don’t care what it is, I just need to get home. Now.”

“What’s going on, bro?” There’s genuine concern in Jay’s voice and for a quick second, I’m tempted to crumble apart all over again and spill everything.

But I need to keep my shit together. I need to form a plan and get the hell out of here.

“I’ll tell you later, just . . . do you know someone with a plane?” Jay has all sorts of connections with all the people he knows in the music business. I know he’ll help me if he can.

“Give me a half hour. I’ll see what I can do,” he says before he disconnects, no questions asked.

Within twenty minutes he’s got a flight arranged for me. It leaves in less than two hours.

I just hope that’s not too late.