I tried her cell phone for the tenth time.

And for the tenth time, it went straight to voicemail. Her voicemail message was the generic electronic one. I didn't even get the benefit of hearing her little voice.

I even checked once or twice to make sure I was calling the right number. Crazy, I know. It said "Tammy" right here in the "Contacts" list, the same Tammy I had called countless times since she had first gotten her cell last Christmas.

I set the phone in my lap, confirmed it was on, and realized that my brain was spinning, looping over the same things again and again. As soon as I set the phone in my lap, I wanted to pick it up again, and try her cell phone. Again.

Again and again.

Deep breaths, Sam.

Yes, I could have used Kingsley's help. Hell, I could use Fang's help, too. And Knighthorse's and Aaron King's and anyone else I'd ever come across.

Deep breaths, Sam.

She's not far. Ten-year-old girls eventually get picked up by the police -

Or picked up by other people. Scumbags. Dirt bags. Killers. Child molesters.

Now I was panicking all over again and stomping the gas and whipping through suburban Fullerton as if it was my own private race course.

I ended up at home, which was about three miles from my sister's home. I parked the van at an angle in front of the house, dashed out, hurdled the chain-link fence that surrounded the property, and plunged inside my house, calling her name.

No response.

I quickly scoured every room. My hope had been that she simply returned to her own home, her own room, her own bed. Still, I called her name repeatedly, searching everywhere and anywhere, even out in the garage. I moved quickly through the house. I sped around supernaturally quickly. The rooms and walls and carpet were a blur. Pictures were a blur. My head was spinning.

I caught myself on a wall.

I gasped, chest heaving. Having a full-blown panic attack wouldn't help anyone, least of all, my daughter. I knew this. I had cautioned parents of this very thing many times in the past, when searching for their own runaways.

Deep breaths, Sam. Calm down.

Fuck calming down. I want my daughter.

Shaking, I stood straight, hands on hips, thinking hard. Or trying to think hard. Truth was, my brain still hadn't entirely kicked into gear. Night was coming, but was not here yet.

I hated what I was sometimes. Hated it. Here I needed to find my daughter, and I needed to think clearly, but I couldn't push past the fog.

I paced and checked the time on my cell. One more hour until sundown. Then I would think clearly. Perhaps even get a psychic hit or two.

Except one hour might be too late.

My phone rang. I gasped, and nearly dropped it. Kingsley. Again. The asshole. The fucker. How dare he call me when he knew I was waiting to hear news about my daughter.

I ignored it. He tried one more time. I ignored that, too, hating him more and more.

I had tried her closest friends. Sherbet was cruising the streets with his patrol officers. Spinoza was hitting any and all shops within a reasonable radius.

How much money did she have?

I thought hard, forcing my mind to go back a few days, before my trip to Vegas. Yes, I had given her and Anthony $20 each. A twenty wasn't much.

I gripped my keys and turned for the door, nodding to myself. Twenty bucks was just enough for -

My phone rang again.

It was Spinoza.

I paused and clicked on, pressing the touch screen so hard I nearly cracked it. "Any news?" I asked. Or tried to ask. My voice cracked and sounded funny, even to my ears.

"Very good news, Sam," he said gently. "I've got someone here you might be interested in seeing."

"Oh, God," I said and sank to my knees.

"She's with me, Sam. Safe and sound. We're at the bus station in Buena Park. Do you know the one?"

I buried my face in my hands, pressing the phone against my ear. "Yes."

"We'll be here waiting."

I clicked off and let the tears flow, sitting there on my knees, my face in my hands.

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