With the radio cranked up, Jake almost missed his daughter's phone call. His terrible singing was also to blame, but 80's power ballads were his guilty pleasure. Hopefully, Sam would forgive him, even if it was her second attempt to call him. Jake reached for the ringing phone on the passenger seat but only succeeded in knocking it to the floor. Swerving into the next lane, he finally snagged the device as a semi-trailer honked at him for his recklessness.

Turning down the music, he said, "Hi, Sam."

"Hey, Dad. Where are you?"

"I'm about to cross the border into Indiana."

"So you're still in Michigan?"

"Yes."

"I thought you were supposed to be home a week ago?"

"Yeah. It took a little longer than I planned to get things squared away," Jake said, hoping Sam would never learn what had delayed him.

Jake had assassinated a man.

Murder is never the answer, but Jake's victim was a deranged biker intent on killing Jake along with his best friend's family— an innocent woman and her three children. Tom had already been killed by the psychopath during a supposed road rage altercation. But after the American justice system had failed them, it was literally kill or be killed, and Jake wasn't going to let Tom's family die too. No way, even if he ended up blackmailed by the biker's gang for his crime. Tom's family was as close to him as his own family. Heck, the kids called him Uncle Jake.

In fact, all of Jake's friends and family were back in Michigan except for Sam. Jake and Sam's mother had divorced years ago, and Chicago was Kate's hometown, so if Jake wanted to be a part of his daughter's life, he was stuck in the Windy City. However, Sam was in her junior year of high school, and she would be off to college next year. He hoped she'd attend the University of Michigan; it was one of the places she'd applied, but ultimately it would be Sam's choice. Jake would not try to manipulate and control her like his ex-wife.

Sam said, "I'm really sorry, Dad. I know Tom was your best friend. Are Mary and the kids doing ok?"

"Yeah. I think so. It'll be tough for a while, but I think they'll be all right."

"That's good. I guess."

An awkward silence followed, which was understandable given the topic. Still, Sam was usually great at filling voids in the conversation. Definitely better than Jake.

He asked, "Is something wrong, Sam?"

"Kind of. I need to ask you a question."

The apprehension in her voice was palpable. Sucking in a breath, Jake said, "Sure."

"But I can't do it over the phone."

"Fine. Do you need me to swing by your mom's when I get to town?"

"No. I'm already at your apartment."

"You are?"

"Yes," Sam laughed nervously.

"How did you get there?"

"Umm . . . Robert drove me."

"Did he?" Jake couldn't be sure Sam's stepfather hadn't dropped her off at his place. Sam was a better liar than Jake too.

"He did. I swear."

"Good. You know my neighborhood is not the best. You could get mugged. Or worse."

"I know. Which is why I didn't walk," she said, sounding annoyed.

"I'm glad," he said, almost positive he'd been lied to.

"So you'll be home soon?"

"Yes. It should be about two hours if I don't run into traffic."

She laughed. "There's always traffic in Chicago."

"You got that right. Are you sure you can't tell me what the problem is over the phone?"

"I'm sure. Love you, Dad."

"Love you too." They ended the call, and exactly two hours later, Jake entered his apartment building.

The place was nice. A little old and rundown, but it was all he could afford on his paltry salary. After leaving the Chicago PD, Jake's father-in-law, a prominent local judge, had Jake blackballed from every job in the town, down to a department store security guard. Jake found work in a small factory making car parts, but most of his paycheck went towards child support. Kate insisted that she didn't need his money, but Jake had his pride. Though that may change depending on how quickly he found another job. His last boss was not happy over Jake's extended stay in Michigan and had fired him.

As Jake ascended the stairs to his second-floor apartment, a short dark figure wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt pushed past him going in the opposite direction. They bumped shoulders, almost toppling Jake over backward. The person didn't slow down or offer an apology.

"Excuse you!" Jake shouted.

"Go screw yourself."

"What did you say?"

The individual bounded down the steps and ran out the door, a backpack slung over one shoulder. Jake thought about going after them but knew it was pointless; confronting a jerk wouldn't change their attitude. He took a second to collect himself and continued up the stairs to his apartment.

The door was ajar.

That wasn't good.

Hadn't Jake just lectured Sam about the neighborhood? He pushed open the door and stepped inside. "Sam?"

No response.

He called out louder. "Sam!"

Nothing.

Frowning, he put the unused keys back in his pocket and dropped his suitcase at his feet. He closed the door behind him.

The first thing Jake noticed was the apartment was eerily quiet. The only sound he heard was his heart beating against his rib cage. The living room and dining area were empty. Turning back, Jake examined the small kitchen, and his jaw dropped.

Bright red droplets littered the floor, and a bloody handprint was smeared across the countertop. More blood sat congealed in the sink. Fuck! This was not good. Not good at all.

His mind raced through different scenarios as the pounding in his chest matched the beat of a bass drum. The deadbolt had been intact, so did Sam forget to lock the door? Or had she answered it without the chain and got ambushed? Or did she know her assailant, a friend or neighbor perhaps? Any were possible with the evidence he had before him, or was it related to Sam's problem? Why hadn't he pushed her harder for answers? Was Sam in real trouble?

The one thing he did know was the person on the stairs had acted guilty. Was his daughter lying in a back corner of the apartment raped, stabbed, and bleeding to death while he stood here playing detective?

"Sam!"

In the short hallway, all three doors were open. First, he ran to Sam's bedroom and found the comforter pulled tight across the bed and nothing of Sam's on the desk or floor. The room appeared untouched, so he moved across the hallway to the bathroom and flicked the switch. Light flooded the small room, bouncing off the white walls, the tiles, and the checkered shower curtain. Everything looked normal. Good.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he turned the corner to the master bedroom. He feared he'd see Sam's mutilated body on his bed. Thank God, it wasn't there. However, the mattress was askew. He frantically searched the room but saw nothing else out of place. Which meant if Sam was still in the apartment, the last place she could be was in his walk-in closet. The idea was crazy, but he had to check.

Jake ripped open the door and turned on the light, scanning the cramped space. Shirts and pants were arranged neatly on their hangers, and his shoes lined the floor. A firebox for his important documents sat untouched on the floor next to his secured gun safe. Luckily, no Sam.

Sitting on the corner of the bed, he nudged the mattress back into position. Interesting. It must've been knocked out of place as he hastily packed for his trip. Yet it was a dumb thing to worry about with his daughter missing? All his brainpower should be spent on finding Sam. With the apartment searched and blood in the kitchen, Jake had to consider the possibility she'd been kidnapped. Chicago was a hub for the sex trade, and Sam was a gorgeous girl— so it was a distinct possibility.

He rested his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. The process jarred loose a simple solution to this mystery. Jake was mad at himself for not thinking of it sooner. He would just call Sam. It was probably a simple misunderstanding. Maybe, she had stepped out for a minute. It didn't explain the blood, but Jake pulled his phone from his pocket rather than waste more time. It almost slipped from his sweaty hands before he found Sam's number. He stabbed at the screen and placed the call, but it went directly to voicemail.

Damn it! Sam always answered his calls.

The cop in him was gone; only the frantic father remained. He cursed and threw the phone across the bed. Staring at the carpet, he contemplated his next move. Should he call his ex-wife, Kate? That would be a fun call. She'd blame him for living in a crime-ridden neighborhood, for leaving her alone, for the divorce, for everything. No. Time was of the essence. He'd call the police first and then Kate.

As Jake reached for his discarded phone, he heard a noise at the front door. Had the kidnappers returned to clean up the blood? Maybe. Probably. Without time to get his gun from the safe, he raced to the kitchen to grab a knife from the drawer. With the weapon in hand, he pressed himself against the wall and turned off the lights.

Every muscle in his bodytensed as the door swung open.