Finding my dad’s email, which promptly landed in my junk mail folder, hasn’t added any insight. He found Elena living in our family’s cottage two months ago. Other than a picture of her taken outside the cottage confirming she was actually there, he gave me a link to a missing persons article and said: She’s scared. Help her.
But Dad doesn’t help anyone. Not without getting something in return. The bastard is probably using her fear. Using it against her? Using it against me?
Shit, I don’t know.
It could be either. She seemed so genuine (even if she was freaking out) in the parking lot, as though she really was looking for my help. As though she truly was there about a job.
Picking up the missing persons report, I read it again …
Authorities Searching for 20-year-old Woman
NEW YORK, NY – The New York Police are searching for missing 20-year-old Elena Reed.
Reed was last seen by her fiancée on Thursday evening, July 25th, 2013, celebrating her twentieth birthday at Vilnius Grill in Brooklyn.
Description
Name: Elena Ann Reed
Age: 20-years-old
Racial Identification: White female
Height: 5ft 6
Weight: 130 pounds
Hair Color: Blonde
Eye Color: Blue
Further Identifying Information: Reed was last seen wearing a knee-length black dress, and was carrying a tan cloth purse. She has a flower tattoo on the lower part of her back.
Efforts have been ramped up in the past couple of days to try and locate Elena Reed. Her friends, family, and authorities have all been searching for her.
You are urged to share this article and information on any social media that you use to alert others to her disappearance.
Anyone with any information is urged to call 911, or if you have any information, you can submit an ANONYMOUS tip to Crime Stoppers.
I groan, rubbing my neck, and replace the article on the table, switching to the engagement announcement. It’s dated two days prior to her disappearance. She’s engaged to a cop, Officer Lawrence Peck. So why did she run? What happened that her cop fiancée couldn’t protect her from? It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, unless it’s the cop she’s running from.
She’s smiling in the photo, a small smile, not much different from the scared, timid one she gave me tonight.
And the cop, he’s smiling, too. A big, wide smile, looking down at her as though she’s a prize.
The best prize.
I drop the announcement and lean back, resting my head on the back of my chair. It’s closing in on five in the morning. Almost six hours since she ran from the parking lot.
I feel terrible. Fucking terrible for yelling at her. When she mentioned his name, I figured my old man was up to his usual bullshit. I thought he sent her to clean me out, take back what he says is rightfully his. I thought …
“Found her,” Wes calls as he walks into the room. “She checked into The Broken Bottle Inn about five hours ago. Room sixteen.”
“The Broken Bottle Inn,” I echo, shaking my head. I’m too exhausted to even try to make sense out of why she’d get a room at that disgusting place. Pushing myself out of the chair, I stand up. “Let’s go get her.”
Wes gives me a look. “You can stay here.”
“Not a chance,” I say, waving a hand in the direction of the door. “Let’s go.”
Elena
The Broken Bottle Inn.
Out of all the places in Sacramento, I have no idea why I chose this one. Perhaps it’s because it’s cheap, or maybe it’s because the parking lot is around the back, hiding my car from the street. I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’m not sure I can sleep on the bed.
Sleep … Who am I trying to kid? Even if the sheets and mattress are clean, which is definitely questionable, the concept of closing my eyes and allowing myself to be vulnerable is not an idea I’m fond of right now.
I guess the place is still a step up from my car or my trusty tent, and the shower was amazing even if the water pressure was lacking, but …
The rooms are rented by the hour here. I found that out when the guy at the check-in desk advised me of both, the hourly and nightly rates. Then, when I told him I wanted a room for the night, he informed me it would be fifteen minutes before one would be free. That’s one of the reasons why I question the cleanliness of the bed; the other is the large stain in the center of the worn out comforter. I think it may have been blue once, but it looks more gray now than blue.
But like I said, it’s cheap and since I have exactly three-hundred twenty-eight dollars and nineteen cents left, I figure cheap, even if it means sleeping on the floor or in the bathtub, is still better than my car. A car both Jason and Wesley saw me drive away in.
I’m sitting on the floor in between the large picture window and the door, my back pressed against the wall. It’s seven minutes after five. Six full hours since I ran from Jason, and aside from the shower, all I’ve done is sit here, constantly lifting the drab brown curtain, peeking out the corner as I attempt to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
I can’t stay here. Can’t stay in Sacramento. Not when I was stupid enough to give Jason my name. My real name. Not that I have a fake one, but I probably should have made one up.
But, good God, he was angry, and that anger mixed with concern; it was flustering. Confusing. For a moment there, I swear my brain just shorted out.
And besides that, he was supposed to already know who I am.
I shouldn’t have trusted Mr. Chapman. I know that. But there is just something so kind about him even if he is a little sad. I really thought he wanted to help me. Hell, the man let me stay with him and fed me for two months before he managed to convince me to come here. Who does that if they don’t really want to help?
I guess this is just another mistake to add to the long list of mistakes I’ve made. There’s no point in self-pity. No point in regret. The two are lonely companions in this life and they lead you nowhere but to further regret and self-pity.
Maybe I should try to change my name again. I tried to do it once. It was nine months ago. I found a guy who promised to get me new identification and layout a paper trail for that new identity. I spent every dime I had for it. Every single penny.
I thought it was a good investment. With a new identity, I could get a job. I could replace the money, get a place to live.
It didn’t quite work out that way, though. The guy took my money and then took off.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep, calming breath that does nothing to soothe my jittery nerves.
“Yo, Elena,” a male voice calls out, followed by three swift knocks against the door. “Open up, babe, food’s gonna get cold.”
I yelp in surprise and my hands fly up to my mouth in a pointless effort to staunch the sound. It takes a second or two to place the voice, and another two seconds for the surprise to ebb, replaced by a sense of foolishness.
Of course they’d come find me. Mr. Chapman told me that. He told me to find a place to sleep, told me to wait. And Jesus, that’s exactly what I did.
Does that make me completely crazy?
Yes, it probably does.
“Wesley, is that you?” I call out. The question is pointless. I recognize the voice. I know it’s him. The words do nothing more than confirm that I am, in fact, here.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s me.”
I shift to my knees and push the curtain aside. There he is, dressed in blue jeans and a light blue tee, the same things he was wearing at the bar. He has a ball cap on, his light brown hair flipping up around the sides. He seems taller, all around bigger, although that could be because I’m kneeling.
I look around, scanning the street in front of the inn and the sidewalk. He’s alone, or at least I can’t see Jason lurking anywhere. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed about that.
I look back to Wes. His green eye
s are warm, smiling, as he holds up a brown paper bag and a cardboard carry tray with two large coffees.
“You gonna open up?” he asks.
His voice is muffled, distorted through the thick glass. I reach down, cracking the small sliding portion of the window open, only half an inch, before I answer, shaking my head, “Probably not, no.”
He laughs, clearly amused. “You can let me in or I can pick the lock,” he says. “I’m coming in either way. We gotta talk and I ain’t gonna do it through a window.”
I hesitate. I don’t know this guy. I don’t know anything more than what Mr. Chapman told me. Wes is the nice one (supposedly). But since I’m thinking I should have never trusted Mr. Chapman in the first place …
I can tell Wes is getting impatient, the smile fading from his eyes, and dropping from his lips. He doesn’t look mad, though. Not at all. If anything, he almost looks like he expected this. He jerks his chin toward the door. “Does that door have one of those chain locks?”
Really? He tells me he’s going to pick the lock if I don’t open the door and now he expects me to tell him what other security features the door has?
“Why would I tell you that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Just answer the question, babe.”
His tone isn’t really sharp, but it’s most definitely not amused. I roll to my feet, my gaze locking on to the chain, which I secured the second I closed the door. I wonder if it would stop him. It looks flimsy and the bolts are loose.
Sighing heavily, I look back to Wes. “Yes, there’s a chain lock.”
“Good,” he says. He balances the paper bag on top of the coffee cups, and reaches around to his back, pulling out a Taser and a cartridge. “I want you to put it in place, unlock the door, and stand back. I’m going to open the door just enough to slide this Taser and cartridge in. You know how to use one of these?”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Yes, but why … why would you do that?”
“Because I wanna have a chat with you and you don’t trust me,” he replies as though the answer should be obvious. “I figure this might make you feel a bit safer.”
My first instinct is to refuse, but I’m thrown off by his offer. Besides, something tells me that he isn’t kidding about picking the lock. I suspect that he’ll walk in here no matter what I say, and he’s right; having a Taser will make me feel safer.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes for a second.
Good God, I hope I don’t regret this.
Chapter Four
Elena
Wesley hasn’t said a word since I let him in. It’s only been a few minutes. Five … six at the most, and he just stands there, leaning against the wall, watching me as he eats an egg and bacon breakfast sandwich. He looks relaxed, paying no attention to the Taser I have trained on him.
I’m sitting on top of a desk across from him, a coffee on the surface beside me. Somehow, I’m even more nervous with the Taser. The small laser dot jumps around his chest as I try to hold it still and eat the egg and bacon breakfast sandwich that he brought for me.
There’s something so … unsettling about seeing him this relaxed. My finger shakes over the trigger. He sees it, I know he does, but he doesn’t react. It doesn’t ruffle him at all.
I can’t imagine Peck being this calm. But then, Peck would have never given me the security of a Taser.
Peck likes control.
Peck likes intimidation.
Peck likes …
“So …” Wes says, dragging the word out as he rubs a hand over his chin. He glances around the room, his lips curling in a grimace as his eyes settle on the bed. “Please tell me you didn’t actually sleep on that bed.”
I don’t want to laugh. Really, I don’t. I don’t want to lose any of the tension between us. Losing that would no doubt lead to me lowering my guard. But it happens no matter how hard I try to swallow it down. I laugh at his question, feeling some of my anxiety ease out of me.
“Uh, no,” I say laughing again. “Actually, I didn’t sleep at all.”
His perfectly straight teeth flash as he smiles. “Me neither.”
“Up all night digging up the dirt on me?” I ask, feeling steadier, less shaky, at the sight of his easy smile. It’s warm, concerned, even caring. The tremors in my trigger finger recede and my hand stops vibrating with nerves.
“Something like that,” he says.
“Find anything good?” I inquire, feigning disinterest. Truly, I want to know everything. What he found, and more so, what he didn’t. I shift on top of the worn desk, uncrossing my legs only to cross them again.
His light green eyes crinkle as his smile grows and he cocks a brow in question. “Is there something good to find?”
I pop the last bit of my sandwich into my mouth, chewing slowly, stalling. I know he had to have found something. If not, then he’s a horrible private investigator. I’ve done a few searches myself since I left New York, and the internet is filled with results on my disappearance. So I can only guess that he’s fishing, hoping I’ll slip up and enlighten him with the details that cannot be found. The details that nobody knows but Peck and me.
I swallow down the food and take a long sip of coffee. “Where’d you get the breakfast?” I ask, shifting the subject. “This is the best egg and bacon sandwich I’ve had in a long time.”
He sighs and his smile fades with disappointment. I’m not quite sure what he expected from me. Last night at the bar was an epic fail. He can’t really expect me to be forthcoming, can he?
“Sunnyside Eatery,” he answers, the disappointment from his expression seeping into his tone. “It’s about five minutes down the street. I’ll take you there sometime.”
His gaze drops from mine to my hand, resting in my lap. It’s just a quick look, down then back up, but I catch it, follow it, and I realize that the Taser is in my lap as well.
Good God, I didn’t even notice I’d put it down.
“Thanks,” I say quickly, flustered, bringing the Taser back up, aiming it at his chest. “But I’m heading out soon.”
The words sound like a lie. Saying them out loud doesn’t add another layer of concrete to the idea of leaving like I thought it would. Instead, the lie acts like a sledgehammer smashing through the layers I’ve already laid out.
I swallow thickly; a lump in my throat makes the action almost painful. It took me a year to take this step, to find help. Am I really going to walk away from it just because Jason is intimidating and a little scary?
“About that …” Wes pushes away from the wall and steps toward the small garbage can in the corner by the window, tossing his wrapper in. “I’m not sure I can let you run off just yet.”
“I don’t think you really have much say in that,” I say, waving the Taser around.
He glances between the Taser and me, and for a second I think I see amusement flicker in his eyes before the disappointment settles back in place. “No, I guess not,” he says quietly. “But I’m asking you to stick around for a little while.”
“Why?”
He watches me, his eyes scanning my face as a sad smile lifts the corners of his lips. “Because I think you want to,” he says. “I think you need to. I think you’re sick of running.”
I’m taken aback. I’m not sure why hearing him say it makes me freeze for a second. He’s right. I’m sick to death of running. Staying here, well, not here exactly because this inn is disgusting, but in this town, in one place even if it’s only for a little while is exactly what I want.
But I don’t tell him that.
“You don’t know me,” I say, carefully keeping my tone nonchalant. “You don’t know what I want or need, and you have no idea what I’m sick of.”
“No, maybe not,” he says seriously. “But I’d like to know it all. So would Jase.”
I shrug noncommittally. I’m not sure how to respond to that. If Jason wanted to know me, I’m pretty sure he’d be here, not Wes. He didn’t strike me as a sitting on th
e sidelines kind of guy.
Wes sees my shrug, takes it in, and leans back against the wall. He sighs. “Something you should probably know is that Jason and his dad don’t talk. They haven’t spoken in five years.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, confused. “Why exactly do I need to know this?”
His brow furrows, his gaze filling with question. “Because he didn’t listen to the voicemail and the email went to his junk mail. Jase doesn’t acknowledge any attempt his dad makes to contact him.” He speaks slowly as though he believes I already know this, and the fact that I don’t is perplexing to him.
He pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in. And when they do, when my slow, tired brain starts to piece it together, I don’t say anything. My mouth falls open. Mr. Chapman is Jason Pierce’s father?
“So that’s why Jase didn’t have a clue who you were,” he adds, and then pauses again, giving me more time to absorb his words.
I just keep gaping.
He continues, “The last time that asshole sent someone to meet Jase, it wasn’t because that someone was looking for a private investigator.”
“What were they looking for?” I ask meekly, dreading the answer.
He shakes his head and lets out a loud, frustrated breath. “That’s Jase’s story to tell. I just thought you should know that he had a reason for being an ass, and he feels like shit about it.”
“He was an asshole before I mentioned his father’s name,” I point out.
Wes chuckles and cocks a brow. I can feel my face flushing. He doesn’t have to say it. I know what he’s thinking. I wasn’t a welcoming ray of sunshine either.
I laugh once, stamping down the unwelcome bloom of embarrassment. “Where is Jason anyway?”
Jason
Twenty-eight minutes.