Burning the Past (Southern Heat Book 3)

by Jamie Garrett

  “To your right,” Hemmings directed.

  Dean turned toward the waiting room, anxious to see Amy. Despite Hemmings’ reassurances, he wouldn’t relax until he laid eyes on her himself.

  She wasn’t there. He turned to Hemmings. “You said she went to the bathroom?”

  He nodded.

  “Where are they?”

  Hemmings gestured, about to speak, but the subdued ringtone on his phone prompted him to pull it from his pocket, lifting a finger for Dean to wait. He didn’t. As Hemmings spoke on the phone, he rushed down the carpeted hallway that curved to the left. An elderly volunteer wearing a soft pink shirt at the front desk stared at him in wide-eyed dismay.

  “Bathrooms?”

  She lifted an arm and pointed toward the niche tucked underneath the stairs leading to the second floor. Dean headed toward them, trying to ignore the throbbing in his skull that pulsed with every step he took.

  No one was there. It was late, quiet, and visiting hours were over. He stepped into the small alcove, found the ladies room, and gently knocked on the door.

  “Amy?”

  No answer.

  He knocked a little louder. “Amy, are you in there?”

  Still no answer. Hesitating only a second, he gently pushed open the door and stuck his head in. Three stalls to the left, sinks on the right. The stall doors were open. He frowned in confusion. “Amy?” His voice echoed through the empty room.

  “Shit!” He turned and walked back toward Hemmings. His hands balled into fists and his heart pounded as his growing fear overrode the pounding in his skull. “She’s gone.”

  Hemmings abruptly disconnected his call and stared at him. “What do you mean, she’s gone?”

  Dean barely bit back his sarcasm as he explained. “The bathrooms are empty. She’s not there.”

  Hemmings’ eyebrows shot up, but he moved fast, pocketing his phone and turning. “I’ll check inside the ER. She might’ve gotten back there looking for you. You go ask the front desk if anyone’s seen her.”

  They separated and Dean hurried back to the front desk, where the volunteer once again stared at him.

  “May I help you?”

  “Did you see a young woman going to the bathrooms a little while ago?”

  She shook her head. “A nurse?”

  “No,” he said. “She would’ve been wearing jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and tennis shoes.”

  “No, I’m sorry I haven’t, but if you want me to—”

  He abruptly turned and headed back toward the emergency department’s waiting room. Hemmings emerged from behind the door that separated the emergency room trauma bays from the waiting room. He wore a frown. He took one look at Dean and then once again reached for his phone.

  He pressed a button, waited a second or two, and then spoke. “We have a problem. She’s missing. I want her cell phone monitored. She’s wearing . . .” He looked up at Dean.

  “Jeans, gray sweatshirt, and tennis shoes.”

  He repeated the information into the phone, disconnected the call, and looked at Dean.

  “Does she have any money on her or a credit card?”

  “How the hell should I know?” he snapped. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, one hand clasping his ribs. “She usually carries her wallet in her pocket. I don’t know what she has in it.”

  “We’ll find her,” Hemmings said.

  Dean jogged toward the door, holding one arm over his ribs to stop the searing pain from flaring with every step. “Take me back to the motel so I can get my truck.”

  “Dean, let us do our job. We’ll find her. You’re not in any shape to—”

  “I’m not going to sit on my ass while she’s out there, in danger. I’m looking for her. I’ll call my squad, too. We’ll search the bus station and call the taxi services.” Shit. Where the hell would Amy go? “I’ll start at Promise House, see if she went back there.”

  Hemmings seemed to realize there was no way he was going to stop him. “You touch base with me every thirty minutes, you got that? If you get any leads, you let me know. I don’t need to be worrying about you, too.”

  Dean nodded in understanding. “We’ve got to find her, Hemmings. I have to.”

  22

  Amy

  Amy sat in the back seat of the taxi, fighting her tears. Her hands trembled and her heart flooded with uncertainty. Dean was going to be alright, but she wasn’t about to put him in danger again. Being around her could very well have been his death sentence. She wasn’t going to risk that again.

  Why was this happening to her? The thought of being kidnapped again, sold to the highest bidder from God knew where, left a sick feeling in her stomach, so much so that she almost gagged. She clamped a hand over her mouth, swallowing hard.

  And why drag Dean into the mess? He was a good guy. Amy wished she had met him before all this. Her past would always be part of her present and her future. Did she have any right to drag Dean into it? Put him in danger?

  Not a one.

  She’d asked the taxi driver to take her to a motel on the southeast side of town, in the opposite direction of the past two motels she and Dean had stayed in. She couldn’t help but feel someone in law enforcement was feeding information to Nick or his bastard henchmen. No way could they have been found—twice—by accident. After picking her up from the hospital, she hoped the driver would assume that she was from out of town, visiting someone in the hospital, with nowhere to stay. That was just fine with her. She didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, or put anyone else in danger.

  Amy knew exactly how much money she had in her wallet. She had checked while waiting in the shadows in front of the hospital. Fifty-two dollars. She could manage on that for, what, a day? Two, tops. She had to pay for the taxi and a motel room. She couldn’t hide herself on a park bench, or risk being out in the open. Would it even be enough for a motel? If not, she’d be forced to hide somewhere on the streets. Perhaps an alley behind a trash bin, or maybe a darkened doorway.

  To escape Nick, she would resort to sleeping in an alley. God.

  Guilt surged through her. She fidgeted, clutching her fingers together and then swiping her sweaty palms down the front of her jeans. Her stomach still churned and the thick lump steadily growing at the base of her throat foreshadowed another bout of tears, her chest tight with apprehension. She swallowed, hard, and took a deep breath.

  Dean . . . she had no doubt that the beating he’d taken had been at Nick’s hands, or someone working for him. Dean was no slouch. He was a firefighter, his muscles honed and strong. He must have been taken by surprise. No way did she see him losing a fair one-on-one fight with anyone, especially Nick. He had to outweigh Nick by at least twenty pounds of muscle. Then again, she hadn’t seen Nick in a long time. Things changed.

  Could it have been a random mugging? No. Dean had still had his wallet tucked into his back pocket. There was nothing random about it. Somehow, Nick or one of his men had found her again. What would’ve happened if Dean hadn’t stepped outside when he had? And why hadn’t Nick, or whoever it was, snatched her when she was alone?

  The memory struck so suddenly it took her breath away. Just a short while before Dean had almost collapsed against the door, she’d been in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. She’d heard a man’s shout. Amy had quickly turned the water off and dashed for the light. The angry male voice sounded like it had come from the bathroom next to hers.

  “What the hell is going on out there? Get away from here or I’m calling the cops!”

  The window in the next room had slid roughly along its dirty track and slammed shut. Oh, God. At that exact moment, Dean had been fighting with someone. Fighting to protect her. She had thought maybe it was a couple of people back there smoking dope or something. She hadn’t heard anything after that, even though she had remained in the bathroom, waiting for any further noise from next door. She wasn’t sure what the man had been shouting about, but whatever it was, it was over.


  It had been over. Dean had been lying unconscious on the ground and she’d ignored him. For that, she’d never forgive herself.

  She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears. Amy wished she could go back and change everything that had happened. Wished she had never met Nick, wished that she had never given him a second glance, let alone agreed to date him. She was stupid. So stupid. His true motives had been well hidden and she’d believed everything he said. And look where that had gotten her. A fresh wave of guilt swept over her, lying on her shoulders like a heavy weight. She should’ve known better; should’ve known that she couldn’t get close to anyone. Why had she been so foolish? Why?

  “This okay, lady?”

  Amy jolted her attention to the driver and looked past him out the windshield. He had turned his cab up into a small parking lot surrounded by a U-shaped cluster of motel rooms. The place looked like it was at least fifty years old, the “Vacancy” sign in the window missing half of its letters, but still lit up in a bright, cheerful green that flashed intermittently.

  The place terrified her, even from the cab. She wanted to be back in her room at Promise House, safe and sound, but she didn’t dare go back there. No way in hell was she going to put anyone else in danger if she could help it. She had to figure this out on her own.

  She looked at a meter on the dashboard, inwardly groaning, and then tugged her wallet from her back pocket and pulled out a ten. She gave it to the driver and told him he could keep the change. A couple of cents at this rate wouldn’t make much difference.

  “You want me to wait around?”

  She opened the door. “No, thank you.”

  “You sure, lady? This place isn’t exactly in the best part of town.”

  “It’s alright, I won’t be here long.”

  She shut the door and then turned toward the office as the cab slowly pulled out of the driveway. She wasn’t sure what time it was. The night was surprisingly quiet, the chirping of crickets and a bullfrog somewhere in the trees the only sounds in the vicinity. They were definitely off the beaten track here. With a sigh, she walked to the front door and opened it. A small bell tinkled overhead. A moment later, an older woman stepped from a back room, her hair in large curlers. She wore a bathrobe that hung open, revealing a worn pink nightgown, her face wrinkled and tired looking. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth. She gave Amy the once-over.

  “Forty bucks a night. Cash.”

  Shit. That would leave her with two whole dollars. Dandy. More than ever, she wished she had been brave enough to look for a steady job. The money she’d saved was from a small stipend that Meg paid her for helping with the cleaning, cooking, and laundry at Promise House. She was grateful for that much.

  “What’s it gonna be, Honey? If you don’t mind, I’m missing Jimmy Fallon.”

  Amy pulled the two twenties from her wallet and placed them on the counter. “Do I have to sign anything?”

  The woman eyed her for several moments and offered a shrug. “Not unless you want to.”

  She quickly shook her head and reached for the key that was hanging from a small oblong, brown plastic disc that the manager gave her. The name “Ikey’s Motel” was barely legible, nearly obliterated from years of use. She didn’t even want to touch the key fob, but holding back a grimace, reached for the key and then looked up to offer a thank you. The woman had already disappeared through the doorway.

  Amy walked outside. The cool night air couldn’t disguise the unique odor of stagnant water. There must be a brackish pond or something out behind the motel. Or perhaps a green and algae-filled swimming pool. Stepping closer to the outdoor light attached to the wall by the door, she peered at the key. Room Five. Again. She suppressed a shudder.

  Her heart heavy, continually searching her surroundings the darkness beyond for any sign that someone had followed her, she slowly walked around the U-shaped cluster of rooms. Only a few of the exterior room lights worked. Maybe that was just as well. She arrived at her room, which was situated in the corner.

  She unlocked the door and slipped inside, closing it softly behind her. She locked the door and slid the chain into its track. Before turning on the light, she stepped to the windows and closed the curtains firmly. Heavy, floral print, faded-with-age curtains.

  She stepped between the two twin beds, a small shelf-like table attached to the wall between them. A small desk lamp was screwed into the shelf. Beside it sat an old-fashioned, rotary-dial telephone and a box of Kleenex. She flipped on the light. The light from the low-wattage bulb barely lit the corners of the room.

  She gave the place the once-over, which didn’t take long. Wood paneling that looked like it stepped right out of the 1970s. So did the bedspreads: an awful pink floral print faded by hundreds of washings. She grimaced. At least they matched the curtains. Sort of. The linen looked dingy, like it hadn’t been washed in a few weeks. Everything about the room yelled “old,” even the slightly musty smell.

  Depression hit her like a punch to the gut. Tears filled her eyes and she tried to blink them back. She sat down on one of the beds and leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees as she buried her face into her hands and wept. What the hell was she going to do?

  Amy allowed herself the luxury of feeling sorry for herself for a few minutes, but then abruptly straightened, swiped at the tears on her cheeks, and tried to think. She knew what she couldn’t do. She couldn’t go back to Dean and she couldn’t go back to Promise House. And she had two dollars to her name.

  She glanced at the phone, arguing with herself. What else could she do? She wasn’t going to get anyone else around here mixed up with her troubles. The best thing she could do was to get out of town, and fast. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Eleven thirty. Not too late in Arizona.

  Just do it!

  She took a deep breath, swallowed her pride, and picked up the receiver. Following the instructions taped to the base of the phone to dial out, she connected to the operator, then asked to place a collect call.

  Amy had no idea if she was doing the right thing, and definitely no idea what to expect. A clicking sound came down the line, and then, sounding like it was terribly far away, ringing. By the end of the third ring, she fought the urge to hang up. She tightened her grip on the receiver. She couldn’t break the connection. It was all she had left.

  “Hello?” The woman’s voice was weary and annoyed.

  “Mom?” A pause. “Mom, it’s me, Amy.” Muffled coughing sounded from the other end, and she imagined her mom with the cigarette. The older woman muttered something she couldn’t make out. “Are you there, Mom?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Georgia, like I have been for nearly a year now.” Amy took a deep breath, swallowing heavily, and tried not to sound resentful that her mother had made no attempt to contact her in the past eight months since she had arrived at Promise House and called to give her the number there. “How have you been?”

  “Fine. What do you want, Amy?”

  The reply felt like someone had punched her in the gut, but she struggled past it. “I need help, Mom. Nick found me. He’s escaped from jail and he’s after me. The police can’t find him again. I hate to ask, but could you wire me money for a bus ticket?”

  Nothing. She heard breathing, so she knew her mother was still there. What was there to think about? She frowned. “Mom?”

  “What trouble have you managed to get yourself into now?”

  Amy bristled. She couldn’t help feeling defensive. “It’s not my fault, mom. But Nick . . . he found me. He’s looking for me. Please, Mom, I can’t go back to Promise House. I—”

  “Amy, I told you that man was nothing but trouble. Did you listen? No. You brought this down on yourself, embarrassing yourself and your family. You got yourself into this and you can get yourself out. We don’t need that kind of trouble here. This is what you get for going against our wishes and dating that good-for-nothing piece of crap anyway.”

  “B
ut Mom—”

  She heard the distinctive click of a disconnected call. She froze, disbelieving, and pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it. Had that just happened? Her mother had just hung up on her? Told her to stay away?

  A sob bubbled upward from deep in her throat. This time she couldn’t prevent it from escaping. A cold chill swept through her, shocking her to the core. While she and her mother had a strained relationship even before she’d been kidnapped, never in her life would she have thought her mother would turn her back on her, to refuse to help her. Would she even be welcome if she somehow managed to show up on their doorstep?

  Hand trembling, tears streaming down her cheeks, she gently placed the receiver back on the phone. Her vision blurred. Slowly, she lay down on the bed, no longer caring if it was clean or dirty. She curled herself into a ball and squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to block out the pain of rejection.

  Too late. Exhausted, physically and emotionally, she cried herself to sleep. Alone, vulnerable, and very much afraid.

  23

  Dean

  Dean tried to calm his nerves as he drove through the streets of Monroe, looking for Amy. While not truly expecting to find her wandering the streets, at this point he didn’t know what to expect. Agent Hemmings had dropped him off at his truck before returning to the Monroe PD headquarters to call in backup. Dean had driven straight to the firehouse, hoping to enlist the other firefighters in his engine company to help look for Amy, but they were out on a call, the place deserted.

  His head throbbed. With every passing minute, his muscles grew stiffer, bruising with the blows that had been dealt him behind the motel. He pushed it aside. He couldn’t focus on his discomfort now. He had to find Amy. If that guy back there at the motel hadn’t heard the scuffle and shouted out his bathroom window, there was a good chance that both she and Dean would be dead now. The thought sobered him.