Page 43 of Fearless Encounter

Her mind filled with fears and what-ifs. What if Meg was hurt? What if they couldn’t find her soon enough? Brooke clenched her fists, fighting frustration. She wanted to help, needed to do something—but what? Gabriel and Weston had the skills, the training, but she was just a pastry chef.

Yet sitting idly, waiting for news, was driving her crazy. She drummed her fingers on the table, staring at the swirling patterns of the wood grain as if the answer might reveal itself there. She thought of David, her son, and the helplessness she would feel if he were in danger. She would move heaven and earth for him—shouldn’t she do the same for Meg?

Brooke took a deep breath, pushing aside fear. She had to find a way to be useful. Action was the only antidote to this gnawing frustration, and she couldn’t bear feeling stuck any longer. She needed to be strong, not just for herself, but for Meg.

Brooke took another sip of her coffee. She pulled out her phone, hoping for a distraction, and started scrolling through her messages. Most were mundane—work updates, a note from David about classes.

Then a new text caught her eye. It was from a number she didn’t recognize. She tapped it open, her curiosity piqued.

The message wasHalloween draws near,and the signature was an emoji of a fox.

Her pulse quickened, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. That emoji—Meg. Brooke’s thoughts went back to high school, to the inside joke when she’d called Meg the fox for her cleverness. And Halloween—they always went to the cemetery on Halloween. It was a small cemetery, not one the tourists flocked to visit. Brooke considered ittheir cemetery, due to all the late-night visits. Could it be? Was this a message from Meg?

Her hands trembled as she stared at the words, but a spark of hope ignited within her. That had to be a clue. Meg was trying to tell her that she was being held at the cemetery.

Brooke quickly tapped a response:Not long now. She signed it with her initialB, the signature she’d used passing notes in high school—assuring Meg that the reply was from her.

She pressed send, her heart pounding in her ears. Meg would know her coded message had gotten through.

Brooke had to act, but she couldn’t handle this alone. She needed to tell Gabriel and Weston, explain the message and the significance. But there was no time to waste—every moment counted. She rose from the table, leaving her half-full cup of coffee behind, and headed straight for Weston’s office, urgency propelling her forward.

Weston’s desk was empty, the hum of his computer the only sign of activity. He was likely in the men’s room. Amalie hadn’t arrived at the office yet. Brooke felt a ripple of panic. She called Gabriel’s number, pressing the phone to her ear, but was sent straight to voicemail.

She couldn’t delay another second.

She fumbled in her purse for anything to use as a weapon. Her hand brushed against something hard—her bench scraper. It was a sturdy, flat piece of stainless steel meant for chopping, cutting, or scraping. She kept it in her purse so it wouldn’t go missing in the kitchen at Jasper’s. She’d lost too many already, and this one was a special design.

The pastry scraper had a surgical steel blade with a wide, nonslip rubber handle. The sharp, beveled edge could chop nuts or vegetables, as well as scrape dough off her table. She slid it out of the protective sleeve and decided that it would have to do.

Clutching the scraper, she felt a surge of confidence. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. She slipped it into her back pocket, then put her jacket on. She slid her phone into her other pocket and left her purse on Amalie’s chair, intending to come back for it later.

Then Brooke rushed out of the office, shutting the door behind her. She exited the building and bolted down the street, knowing the cemetery was only a few blocks away. If she ran, she could make it on foot. It was faster than finding transportation.

As she sprinted, her mind raced with thoughts of Meg and what she might find at the cemetery.

The few blocks seemed like an eternity. At last, the cemetery gates loomed ahead. She spotted the aboveground tombs. New Orleans was below sea level, and graves were built above ground to prevent them from being washed out. They made great places to run and hide to scare each other on Halloween.

Brooke slowed her pace as she neared the entrance, scanning for any signs of danger. Every shadow and movement set her nerves on edge, but she pressed forward.

Meg was there somewhere—she had to be. Brooke stepped into the cemetery onto the poorly tended grass. The cemetery had been abandoned for years, except for what little maintenance was done. Before going farther into the cemetery, she stopped for a second. She needed to let someone know where she was and what she was doing. Her fingers quickly flew over her phone’s screen as she texted Amalie, who should arrive at the office any minute now.

She sent a short message:Rescuing Meg at cemetery

She hit send, knowing that Amalie would inform Gabriel as soon as possible. She might not have another chance to use her phone, so she had to count on Amalie to get the message through.

With that done, Brooke took a calming breath and refocused. She tucked her phone back into her pocket and moved deeper into the cemetery, each step deliberate and cautious. The old gravestones loomed around her, but it was no longer a game to walk among them like on Halloween.

She had to think… Where would Meg be held?

Brooke remembered the spots they used to frequent—the mausoleum at the far end, the large oak tree where they would sit and share secrets. She headed in that direction, moving as quietly as she could. Her ears strained for any sound that might indicate she wasn’t alone.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. Brooke touched the handle of the bench scraper in her back pocket, alert for an opportunity to use it.

Just as she rounded a corner near the mausoleum, she spotted movement. A man—tall, with a sturdy build—emerged from the mausoleum’s entrance. Brooke’s breath hitched.His harsh features and cold, calculating expression made her suspect he was one of Daniel Fontenot’s henchmen, likely Russian. The man walked the path, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp.

Brooke ducked behind a tomb, peering out just enough to keep an eye on the guard. She held her breath, willing herself to stay perfectly still. The guard moved down the stone pathway, his head turning occasionally as he scanned the surroundings.

When he finally walked away from the mausoleum, Brooke seized the opportunity. She slipped out from behind the gravestone, keeping low and moving as silently as she could. Heart pounding, she approached the concrete building. The door was ajar.