“Maggie,” I say slowly, my voice calm despite the rage twisting in my gut. “Don’t you have some sort of database for the people who text that phone?” Grayson looks how I feel, his shoulders hunched to his ears and his mouth twisted in a frown. “An address, perhaps?” “I have an ice pick in my car,” Hughie adds from his spot by the door. Maggie presses her hand to her chest. “Jesus Christ, Hughie.”
