“Honey. You have to stop chasing that rainbow.”
She turned to stare at her mother, “How the hell can you say that! He’s your grandson!”
“I want him back as much as you do, Jen. But it’s been two months. You know what the police have said.”
“You’re writing him off. He’s still alive. I know it.”
“You’re hoping he is. Jen, I understand. But we need to be realistic.”
“No, Mom. I believe in my son. That’s not unrealistic, foolish hope or anything else. That’s a mother loving her son.”
Jen threw down the dish rag and stormed out. Her mother’s words made her physically ill. In her heart, Jen knew Curran lived. Somewhere.
Some instinct drove Jen to a rundown bar several blocks from her house. She never drank anymore. Not since finding out she was pregnant with Curran two years ago. That accident probably saved her life. Things were out of control before that. They still were for Curran’s father.
Shaking her head to clear the memories, Jen pushed the door open. The inside was small, but surprisingly clean. She sat down at the end of the bar uncertain of what she was doing or looking for.
“Can I help you?” The bar tender sauntered toward Jen while giving her a thorough once over.
“I’d like a Coke, please.”
One dark brow arched over hazel eyes. He poured her the Coke and leaned back after collecting her money.
“Nothing else, just the Coke, thanks.”
“You’re lookin’ for something.”
She blinked, “My son. He was taken five weeks and two days ago.”
Jen wasn’t sure why she’d told him that.
“What’re you willing to do?”
He slipped her a card, “Call him.”
Printed in block letters, the card read Rhys Waylon. White Wolves. Justice is Swift. 555-489-2012.
“Who is he?”
“He leads the White Wolves. They’re better than the police. But, it may cost ya, and not in money.”
She pulled out her cell phone without any hesitation.