Catherine Palmer - Fatal Harvest

“Miss Pruitt.” Cole set both hands on her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “I don’t know how to make this any plainer. I’m going to find my son, and you’re going to come with me. Bring the computer. Stay in contact with Matt, and tell him what I say. And go through that machine with a fine-tooth comb. Read every past e-mail he got or sent. Read all his reports, all his research, everything. If there’s anything else on the computer I need to know, tell me. We’ll find my son, and then I’ll take you home. Is that clear?”

Her chin stiffened. “I will not do this, Mr. Strong.”

“You will do it, because you’re the one who caused all this. You put the bug in his ear about famine relief. You fired him up about all the hungry people in the world, and your big mission trips, and your famine-relief projects. And you taught him every technological thing he needed to know to dig himself into this deep hole. So you’re coming with me, and you’re going to do your dead-level best to stay in touch with my son and help me find him. Do you understand now? ”

Her nostrils flared as she glared at him. For a moment, he thought she was going to buck him again. But he knew if she did, he’d toss the little fireball over his shoulder, throw her in the truck and make her go with him anyway.

“I will need to make arrangements for my classes,” she said through tightened lips. “And perhaps I could be allowed to pack a few things?”

“I’ll take you to your house.”

“My car is at the school.”

“You won’t need it.” He took her arm. “Let’s go.”

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