by Jenna Elliot
Only it isn’t what I want at all.
“What about her family?”
“Mia tried already.” Ethan frowns. “They don’t know where she went either.”
Takes me a minute to get my head around that. No one has a clue where Emme is, or even if she’s okay. Dread comes over me, not the familiar blackness that I know what to do with, but a totally unfamiliar feeling that’s making my palms sweat and my heart race.
Panic.
Jesus. She’s gone. Now what the hell do I do?
“I’ve fucked up, man,” I say to no one in particular. Maybe I just need to get it out of my head because I have no fucking clue how to cope. Once I might have known what to do when I made a mistake, hurt someone, but it’s been so fucking long, I’m just clueless. There’s no way to make this right, is there?
And the silence only drives home how bad I’ve fucked up. If Jax and Ethan would just cuss me out, call me an asshole, which is exactly what’s looping inside my own head right now, I would have something to distract me, react to.
But they just glare at me with those disapproving looks that don’t accuse but place all the responsibility square on my shoulders. No, there aren’t any words, I guess. At least none I want to hear right now.
“I have reasons for not wanting her around,” I say, defending myself against everything they aren’t saying. “Really fucking good reasons. Every goddamned person who has ever loved me has wound up dead. And not the kind of dead that I could convince myself wasn’t my fault. My mother. My father. My sister.”
All tragic, all messy dead. My sister bludgeoned dead.
“Like wind up fucking blown away and gunshot bloody mangled dead for trying to save me.”
Neither dude looks shocked.
“What the fuck does that have to do with Emme?” Ethan asks, his tone quiet.
“Everyone one who loves me dies. I had to push her away to keep her safe.” I don’t want that for anyone, let alone someone who gets under my skin. Emme’s the only one who gets under my skin.
“And how is shoving her away working for you?” Jax prods.
Fuck.
“Emme’s alone right now. And a stalker is after her.” Ethan just adds on more guilt.
And it’s all my fault.
Shoving her away didn’t protect her. All I’ve done is hurt her, put her life at risk. My fault again. I’m responsible for this entire shitstorm. Because I let her get to me. Because I lost control.
“You going to do anything to fix your mess?” Jax asks.
A reasonable question I have no answer for. I shrug. That feeling tightens its grip on my throat, swells up so that I can barely breathe, let alone answer.
Ethan rolls his eyes. “You can sit here and play with yourself. That’ll accomplish a lot.”
Jax just snorts.
Twenty minutes ago, I’d have been all over their asses for mocking me this way. Now I’m fucking grateful their stupidity startles me from my shock.
“I need to track down Emme. Unravel every fucking step she took from the minute she walked out of my office until she dropped off the grid.” The possibility of action gets me back on familiar turf again. Gives me back a little control. “I need to hire a private investigator.”
Jax finally leaves his post by the door. He exchanges a glance with Ethan, and I know before he even opens his mouth that he’ll help me. They’ll both help me.
“I know a guy . . .” Jax says.
I realize I haven’t been keeping everyone as far away as I thought. And right now, that’s okay, as long as they help me find Emme.
34
Emme
DURING THE PAST two weeks, I’ve cashed Ace’s check, dropped out of my life, and taken off across Florida to stay safe and hidden. I’m traveling on cash, so all the hotels sucked, but I finally found a beach rental in Clearwater, a community west of Tampa. I probably should have left the state, but I just can’t bring myself to be too far away. I just want this whole situation to be over, so I can go home.
Once I’m settled and as invisible as I can get on my resources, I make contact with Mia. I set up a fake account on Facebook under a name only she will recognize.
Cecily Saint-Germaine.
We discovered historical romance novels during the summer between seventh and eighth grades. By the summer between eighth and ninth grades, we were writing our own sweeping love stories where we were the heroines having sexy adventures with devastatingly dark dukes and bad-boy buccaneers.
I send Mia a friend request. It takes nearly a full day of waiting, but when I pop back into the Starbucks to use their public Wi-Fi, I receive a friend request from Isabel Navarre.
OMG, is it really you? The words pop up on the chat.
For a blind instant, I can only stare. It feels like forever since I’ve had contact with anyone I love. Tears prickle my eyes, and I think I’m going to burst out in hysterics over my decaf latte. Damned hormones. But the isolation that has been weighing me down ever since leaving Miami suddenly evaporates, and relief wins.
Of course! Who else?! I type back.
Ohmigod!!!!! Are you okay? Everyone’s worried sick.
Reading that leaves me frowning at the computer display. I told you I’d contact you as soon as I was settled.
Almost instantly another message pops up.
Someone trashes your apartment and your car and leaves you death threats. Be real. What is everyone supposed to think if you don’t contact us?
I want to type back: no news is good news, but I don’t want to make light of her concern. Just knowing how much she cares gives me a pang of homesickness that steals my breath.
I settle on: I’m SO sorry I worried you! I’m fine! Even the nausea is better, thank God!!!! It took time to get settled.
Getting settled took more than time because the list of no-no’s is so long. No credit card use. I pay cash for everything. I don’t tell anyone where I’m from, which means creating a new identity. Try operating without proper identification. Something as simple as a driver’s license becomes a major deal.
And worst of all is that I couldn’t contact the people I love until I was reasonably sure no one could follow the trail back to me. This whole situation sucks big.
Just so long as you’re okay, Mia replies. Want me to let your mom know I heard from you or are you going to contact her?
It’s crazy how I’ve spent the last few years disconnecting from my family, flexing my independence and proving to myself I’m an adult. Now all I want to do is go home.
Let her know, please. Tell her I’ll contact her just as soon as I figure out the best way. Tell her I love her and to tell everyone I love them. And NOT to worry!!!!
Mia is easy. She’s connected through social media. My mother, not so much. And whoever is after me will expect me to go straight to my family. I want to limit access as best I can. I don’t want anyone I love at risk, and I don’t want any trail back to me. I don’t have the resources to drop off the planet with fake identification and everything it takes to start up a new life. Not yet, anyway. And every part of me is hoping I won’t need to.
Anything new with the police? Have they found out anything? Mia asks.
Like who’s stalking me?
There’s the question that has upended my whole life. Physically. Emotionally. Could Jason possibly feel betrayed because I wouldn’t get back with him?
How ironic would that be? Jason trying to get back at me when the man he’s jealous of doesn’t even want me.
Can’t wrap my head around any of it. There’s also the possibility that the stalker is someone I don’t know at all. Some random nut who attached him or herself to me at the club.
Random means it’ll likely take longer for the police to figure out what’s going on, but there’s a big part of me that actually likes that theory best. Neat. Clean. I don’t have to know the truth—that I was so deluded I’d been in love with someone who wanted to hurt me. Until I know for sure, I can simply
be a victim and not someone who gets emotionally involved with nut jobs.
I stare at the display without taking a breath, hoping Mia responds with the only word I want to read: Yes.
Sorry. :( If the police have any clue, they haven’t said anything to anyone. I do know they’re making the rounds. They talked with me and Ethan, your family, people at the club. They’ve been asking everyone if we know where you are because they want to talk to you again.
Yeah, well . . . Tell them to do their jobs because I won’t contact them until they can promise I’ll be safe.
I’m determined about that. Then I admit the biggest truth of all. I miss you.
Ooooooh!!!! I miss you SO MUCH!!!! We’re supposed to be getting fat together!
I reply with a :)
But you’re feeling better? Mia wants to know. Really?
At least I can respond with some positive news here. Really! Morning sickness is only in the morning now. Wake up. Puke. Lie back down with a wet washcloth on my head for about half an hour, then I’m good to go.
Mia fires back with a: That’s not too bad. But you’ve got no one taking care of you.
I’ve found an ob-gyn who’s into natural childbirth.
:( Natural?! Sheeeeeet! I want all the drugs they’ll give me. Who wants to be in pain?
Not me! But I want to get baby off to a good start.
Another frowning face. Like I don’t? Studies say there’s no harm to the baby.
I read that. But I also read an epidural slows down the natural birthing process and the baby can go into distress so the mother ends up with a C-section, drugs that may or may not go into the breast milk.
I keep all that to myself and divert the conversation into another direction. My best friend gave me a bunch of baby and pregnancy books to read.
A smiley face again. You have too much time on your hands!
Your fault again. I can’t help but laugh, and for this wonderful moment, my life feels normal again. Me and Mia chatting about whatever. Taking time together for granted. If you hadn’t convinced me that Ace did really mean for me to keep that check, I’d have to work instead of relaxing in the lap of “luxury.”
If you can call my no-ID beach rental luxurious. I can’t. I suspect no one could stretch the term luxury so far as to include my current accommodations. But I’m being practical, stretching the money so it will last as long as possible, thinking about the future for the bean. But then there’s the anxiety that keeps any sort of relaxing from happening. The next eight months loom before me like an eternity. Glancing over my shoulder constantly. Propping chairs under doorknobs and aluminum baking trays against windows, so I can close my eyes and sleep.
Mia types or, more accurately, fires the words back at me. Lap of luxury? You? I’ll have to see that to believe it because you’re way too practical. So where am I coming?
I’m not telling you where I am. My smile fades. I’m back to reality.
The chat screen is blank for a while, and I’m too starved for this connection to my life that I type: You still there?
Yes.
And just as everything inside me calms again, I read Mia’s next words.
Ethan says if I hear from you, I’m supposed to tell you to call Ace. He’s hired a private investigator to find you.
My fingers get ahead of my brain. Why is Ace looking for me? We left it with he never wants to see me again.
I should be worried about who trashed my apartment and car. And figuring out how I’m going to be ready to be a mom. Instead, all I’m worried about is figuring out if he cares for me. And our baby. I am so pathetic.
But I don’t want pity sex or to force Ace into a relationship—which is why I bolted. And why I’m making a new life for myself.
I reach for my decaf latte to try and figure out how to respond. I’m on overload. What did Ace want?
To talk to me and find you. And to tell you that Jason came by Ethan’s shop.
The thing I’m most struck by is how Jason is operating in the open. He’s got to know the police are looking at him as a suspect. What does that even mean, his going to Ethan’s? Is he trying to act concerned to throw the cops off his trail? Or is he really concerned that someone has a dangerous fixation on me? Both? Neither?
And why would Ace think I’d call him? I’d already gotten his message. Loud and clear.
35
Ace
“MITCH COLBURN here, sir,” my head of security says over the phone. “Want me to send him up?”
“Yes,” I say.
Mitch Colburn is the private investigator Jax told me about. I like the guy, and approve of his tactics even though it’s been nearly four weeks and he still hasn’t tracked down Emme. At first I thought locating her would be easy. Cops thought so, too, but Mitch flat-out said we were wrong.
Emme’s smart. She cashed my check and has been operating with cash ever since. No paper trail. No clue about where she headed.
She left her car parked at her apartment, and Mitch hasn’t been able to make her on any public transportation. Not bus, train, or plane. His best guess is she picked up a privately-owned vehicle for cash and hasn’t transferred the title or registered the vehicle yet. That’s a risk if she gets stopped by a cop, but so far, the luck’s been all hers. She’s invisible. Alone and unprotected.
Hiding from me when all I want is to protect her.
This is all my own damned fault. My fault she’s in danger. My fault that she took off. My fault she has cash to keep her on the run. And calling myself an asshole for the thousandth time isn’t doing a damned thing to help Emme.
There’s a knock, then the door opens, and Mitch appears. I take one look at his expression and brace myself.
“I got her.”
My pulse pounds.
“She uploaded a picture to Facebook. She’s operating under an alias, but I geotagged her.”
I thrum my fingers on my desk. “In English.”
“It’s technical. Suffice it to say she took a photo and when she uploaded it to share with a friend on Facebook, her location was included in the data. Most smartphones do this. The photo was taken in front of a brick wall in Clearwater, but the geotag pinpoints her whereabouts.”
“So we know the city?”
Mitch shakes his head and a smile splits his face. “Didn’t Jax tell you I’m good?”
“Not that good. It’s taken you a month.”
“I had to wait until Emme made a mistake. Once I had the city, I canvassed apartment, condo, and house rental databases. I searched for females in her age bracket who’d had credit checks run in the last four weeks. When that came up empty, I went door-to-door on places that don’t require credit checks.”
The PI hands me a slip of paper with Emme’s address.
I hand him a check.
Finding her hasn’t been easy, but I suspect it’s going to prove way easier than convincing her she wants to see me.
36
Emme
MY NEW PUPPY, Molly, is a lot of work, but great company. I’m determined to have her trained by the time baby arrives. And walking on the beach with her is an adventure.
At eight weeks, the world is new to her. Every seashell needs sniffing, and by the way she chases the waves rolling in on the beach, she thinks they’re alive. Sea gulls scare her, but none are around today.
There’s a good breeze. Lots of sunshine. And I’m okay. Molly’s antics are so amusing I almost walk right past someone who should not be walking on this beach toward me.
Mia.
For one stunned second, past and present collide. Seeing her is the most natural thing in the world. Except she shouldn’t be here. How is she here?
I don’t get a chance to ask. She obviously expected to find me because suddenly she’s kicking up sand as she lunges toward me, arms wide. Before I get the question out, I’m wrapped in a familiar hug.
“Oh, Emme.” She’s laughing, but tears immediately spring to my eyes, and a long month of not
okay suddenly wells up inside.
No, I haven’t been okay at all. Just surviving.
I hug her hard until Molly runs around us, barking and tangling the leash until we’re forced to step apart.
I pick up Molly, who licks my face as I ask the only question that matters. “How did you find me?”
Her expression melts into a soft smile. “You do look better. You have no idea how relieved I am. I know you said—”
“Mia?”
She exhales heavily and reaches out to let Molly sniff her. “Ace sent me to talk to you. He doesn’t want to scare you.”
“What?”
“He knows you think he might be the stalker.”
I go cold inside. A chill that has no place on a sunny Florida beach. And the only thing keeping me from flat-out freaking out is Mia. She would never risk my safety. Not for anything. “What are you saying—that he isn’t?”
She nods. “He has alibis for the nights your apartment and your car were trashed. Video surveillance footage from the club. The police cleared him, or I would never have agreed to this.”
I know she wouldn’t. But I’m still trying to understand why Ace would make the effort. “Why would he ask you to come? How did he find me?”
“He hired a private investigator. I told you.” She meets my gaze, and I see in her face so, so much. Worry. About me. About my reaction to her helping Ace. And so much concern. More than anything, I want this whole situation over, so I can go home.
“What does he want?”
“To talk with you. He didn’t want to surprise you. Or scare you. So he sent me to tell you he’s hired three off-duty police officers to be within calling distance so you won’t be afraid to hear him out.”
“If he knew we were in contact, he could have asked you to tell me he’d been cleared.” Despite the sunshine, I shiver.
Mia rolls her eyes. “Please, you know Ace. This was his plan, and let me tell you, he’s been busy. I think you should hear him out.”
That surprises me. Mia’s been the one all along cautioning me not to expect too much from Ace. “Look, he told me he never wanted to see me again.”
