by K. Webster
I move my gaze from Brandon’s stormy one, and look over to one of my arms which he is still squeezing. His movements are jerky when he releases me and takes a step back, almost as if he hadn’t even realized he was holding me so tight.
“Fine. I just want out of this cabin. We can figure out the rest once we’re on the road.”
A smile lights up his face and he nods. I leave the room so he can pack up and spend the next few minutes standing near the hole in the kitchen. The cellar door is still closed and latched. A part of me wants to pull it open—to peer into the dark abyss. I would almost expect him to be standing there with his arms crossed over his bulky chest waiting for me to toss him the rope so he can climb out. But the little girl inside of me refuses to open that door. I know he won’t be standing there. He’ll be curled up and stiff in the same position as last night. And I can’t see him like that. I’m not strong enough to deal with the finality of it.
I shouldn’t feel remorse or sadness. I shouldn’t feel guilt. I shouldn’t feel as though I’ll burst into tears at any moment from having lost another person in my life.
A hot tear streaks down my cheek, though, and I let out a sob. Gabe had become a monster, but for ten years, he wasn’t. I know, deep down, he did love me. Even if that love was born of something sick. It doesn’t make sense to me but my heart still hurts.
I consider some of his last words to me. How he tried to warn me about Brandon being dangerous. It was almost laughable, considering the source—a source who stole an underage girl, forced her to have sex with him, sold her, only to later shoot and kill the person he sold her to. Gabe took and took and took. But in that moment, he gave. And in his final moments, he gave too. When he told me he was sorry. What it all means, I may never know.
Swiping away my tear, I shake my head. These are the pregnancy hormones talking. It probably meant nothing. It was probably just another one of his twisted head games. There’s no way I’m going to mourn the loss of Gabriel Sharpe. He took my innocence, took my love, and who knows what else?
All he gave me in exchange was heartache and pain.
And the monster he created.
He gave me the dragon.
He gave me Brandon.
“Where are we going?” I question as we hit the expressway that will take us to San Francisco.
“I thought I could take you shopping and that we could stay in one of those boutique hotels that overlook the Golden Gate Bridge. I’d always planned on taking you there for your eighteenth birthday. But then…” His voice cracks and I risk a glance at him. His features are more innocent and reminiscent of the boy I knew. Maybe he needed out of that cabin too because now, in his truck with the sun filtering in through the windshield, he looks like the Brandon I remember.
“Then Gabe ruined it all. I know,” I say with a frustrated sigh. “We’re going to look for my dad there too, right?”
He lets out deep breath. “Of course we are. Is that okay?”
Nodding, I reach into my purse and pull out the picture of my parents that Brandon had given to me. Mom is stunning as usual and my dad is fierce and handsome. My eyes glitter with innocence in the photo, and I miss the girl I once was. An ache forms in my chest as I realize I have nothing to remember War by. No pictures. No trinkets. Nothing.
“That was quick,” he says with a smirk. “You and your love for presents.”
I laugh and bounce on the bed beside him, careful not to touch him. Once I’m settled, he opens his palm up to me. Inside are two rose gold earrings in the shape of a heart with a letter B inside.
“These are pretty,” I say softly and open my palm to him so he can drop them into my hand.
He flashes me a shy smile as he gives them to me. “That first day, when you longingly stared out at the ocean and wrote your initial with a heart around it on the foggy glass, I’d been a little fucked in the head about you marring my clean glass. But then…”
“I don’t even remember doing that. It used to drive Dad crazy when I’d write on the windows of his car but Mom always said they were little Baylee notes left all over, and that he should appreciate them.” My voice wobbles and I choke down the swell of emotion thinking about her causes.
“Well, I did appreciate it. For once, I didn’t want the perfection,” he says, “I wanted something better than perfection. I wanted you.”
My fingers trail up my neck and I gently touch the earrings he gave me. Tears blur the world around me, but a smile forms on my lips. His sweet gift and his child. What more could I ask for besides his warm, strong presence? It would have to do. I would have to do this. For him. For us.
“You never told me which neighbor said my dad went to San Francisco,” I mutter and cut my eyes over to him. “It wasn’t Gabe, we know that much. Was it Mrs. Stephens?”
His body stiffens and he shoots me a nervous glance. “Yeah,” he says with a grunt, “but then I also found a note inside saying the same thing when I went to get your things. I guess he left it for you in case you ever came home.”
A note. Funny how he’s just now telling me about said note. I frown as I try to imagine my father leaving me this note. It’s not his style. I also have a hard time believing he’d leave our home after recently having lost Mom to go someplace to look for me that I wasn’t even at. He had no idea where I was, so why would he search in San Francisco. Why not just go to the police?
“Hmmm.”
He shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn’t know much more on the subject so I let it drop. I’ll definitely be involving the police to help find my father. Something isn’t adding up and I need answers.
The rest of the drive is quiet and when the piers start coming into view as we travel along the Embarcadero, he turns and flashes me a grin.
“Clam chowder for lunch?”
My stomach growls and I remember I’m eating for two. I nod and offer him an appeasing smile. “Sure.”
“HOW ARE YOU feeling?” my nurse named Cathy asks. “Do you need some more water?”
I cringe, wondering where their water comes from. Has it been properly purified? Has it been poisoned by the germs of someone coughing too close to the open water source? My mind starts to go there—to the black places that rip apart my sanity. But, before I let it eat me alive, I focus on her. Not Nurse Cathy, but her. My Baylee.
Reaching for my cup, I pull it to my lips and sip. “I have plenty. Thanks.” My voice is hoarse after having the tube in my throat but I feel much freer. Dad had to leave to meet with a client but should be back any time.
“Good,” she says and smiles at me. “This morning we’re going to do some pulmonary therapies. Doc wants you out of that bed and doing some light activity. We’ll start by taking that catheter out and going to the restroom. You’re a big, strong boy. You can do this.”
I wince when she reaches for me but am thankful she’s donning a pair of latex gloves. The obsessions running rampant in my head are maddening but something bigger, more important is at stake. My Baylee. So, with thoughts of her in mind, I accept Cathy’s assistance. Another nurse enters the room and closes the door behind her. Fucking hospitals. Anytime they do anything invasive, there has to be a witness. To make sure nurses like Nurse Cathy aren’t molesting me or anything. It just prolongs the process and, therefore, my unease. Cathy works to remove the catheter while I grimace and groan. The heaviness in my chest still feels like a grown man is sitting on top of me. Every breath I take is short and labored. She assures me this is normal and that my body will heal as long as I continue to work to help it along. And I am. I will do whatever it takes.
“Good boy,” she sings like a mother praising a toddler after I piss into the plastic container attached to the toilet seat. It burns like hell. “You did more than I hoped for.” Her hand pats me on the shoulder and I shudder reflexively at her touch.
Baylee.
Baylee.
Baylee.
I exhale the stress of her touch and focus on the therapies. We’ve s
pent a good twenty minutes doing simple exercises beside the bed when Dad shows back up. Stark follows in behind with her disgusting partner. Thank fuck there’s no toothpick in his mouth.
“Mr. McPherson. So glad to see you up and around this fine morning,” she chirps, a little too fucking peppy for this early in the day.
Dad shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
“Looks like we’re done with therapy for a couple of hours, big guy,” Cathy says and helps me back into the bed. She scurries off and I turn toward Stark expectantly.
Her long, brown hair hangs in front of her breasts. She’s wearing a neat, fitted grey suit and black heels. The woman is actually pretty for her age. I guess her to be close to Dad’s age. Her dark eyes probe me, narrowing as if she can peel off the top of my skull and look inside. I’d gladly show her the darkness if she promises to take some with her when she exits.
“Mr. McPherson, this is my partner Steve Shilling. I’m not sure if you remember him or not.” How could I fucking forget his disgusting ass? “You were still sort of groggy from your surgery,” she says and then frowns. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Baylee Winston.”
“I told you that—” Dad starts, but she cuts him off.
“I took your statement, Mr. McPherson, and now I’d like to hear his.”
Dad sighs but nods toward me. I meet her eyes and furrow my brows together. “Baylee didn’t shoot me,” I grumble. “That psychopath Gabe did.”
“Gabriel Sharpe?” Her question is more of a statement. The woman may be questioning me but it seems as if she knows more than she’s letting on.
“Yes, and he took her. He took my girl.”
She raises both eyebrows at me and glances at Shilling. “You do realize she’s just that, right? A girl.”
Anger bubbles in my chest. “She’s eighteen. Have I done something wrong? Why are you here—again—instead of searching for her?”
Dad strides over to my bedside and touches my shoulder. His touch causes me to stiffen, but unlike before, it soothes rather than maddens me. And that is all because of Baylee. Her ability to slay the demons in my head so that I can be somewhat human. Normal even. Well, almost. “Calm down, son.”
“Anyway, her age is beside the point right now,” Stark clips out in annoyance. “What I’m trying to make sense of is her disappearance, Brandon Thompson’s involvement, her neighbor’s involvement, and the sudden disappearance of her father. Additionally, I’d like to inquire more about the sex ring you alluded to in your emails. How did you come to acquire Miss Winston, Mr. McPherson?”
Her barrage of questioning has my head spinning and Dad glowering at her and shaking his head.
“Perhaps we should contact our lawyer,” he says with a growl. “You’ve got no right to barge in here and accuse my son of anything. He’s innocent of whatever it is you’re cooking up. Warren loved that girl and she loved him back. He protected her from that bastard and took care of her when her own father turned his back on her. You’re barking up the wrong tree, detective.”
A smile plays at her lips. “Just tell me what you know so we can do our job to find the missing girl and to put this madman behind bars.”
Dragging my gaze from hers, I inspect the tray on my bedside table with disgust. I can handle the applesauce but that chicken broth shit looks deadly. They’ll have to knock my ass out and pour it down my throat because I won’t willingly allow it anywhere near my mouth.
“Mr. McPherson…” she trails off, jerking my attention from the abomination they want me to ingest.
“I, er…saved her from that place. I’d thought I was donating to a hospital, some pediatric foundation. My sister died when my mom delivered her prematurely. It was my way of contributing to other families in need.” The lie stumbles off my tongue but I’m not about to go to prison. I’ll die before that happens. Not with Baylee out there in danger. “Anyway, I took Baylee to my house. She told me all about how Gabe took her straight from her bedroom, to some cabin out in the middle of nowhere, raped her repeatedly, and then sold her to a sex ring called White Collar Trade that was hiding under the ruse of a pediatric fundraiser benefit.”
Shilling jots down my notes as Stark nods and approaches me. I don’t flinch and work to remain resolutely composed. The last thing I need is for her to sense my weakness and pick apart my mental illnesses. My gaze meets Dad’s irritated one but he nods for me to continue.
“Forrester ‘Buck’ Whitehead was his name,” I tell her. “It was his wife I donated to. You should be able to find record of the funds transfer. I’m not sure if you know this or not, but he was murdered. Gabe killed him to find out where Baylee was hiding. He knew they’d have my last name at the very least.”
Her partner continues to take notes, but at a more hurried pace.
“We’ll look into that,” she says and frowns. “What do you know about Brandon Thompson?”
I shrug my shoulders and it pulls at the incisions on my chest. Grimacing, I shoot her a pained look. “Not much. Besides that he was Baylee’s boyfriend…before.” I look up to find both detectives looking at me expectantly. Detective Shilling has stopped the note taking, his pen suspended in the air as if waiting for me to continue. “We grew close while she stayed with me. Long after she turned eighteen, we fell in love. I’m going to marry her and protect her as soon as we find her.”
Stark’s gaze softens. “Do you think Brandon could have anything to do with Baylee’s disappearance?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so…he’s just a kid. Gabe came for her alone.”
“Can you tell us anything concerning the whereabouts of Anthony Winston?”
My mind is whirring. “No. Where is her mother? Maybe they had to leave town because they found a donor?”
She sighs and shakes her head. “Mrs. Winston passed away a few of months ago. Liver failure. No foul play.”
I attempt to sit up but grow dizzy. My mind is on overdrive as I attempt to piece together what she’s telling me. “What made you ask me if I thought Brandon had anything to do with any of this?”
Her partner and her exchange a look.
Stark clears her throat before continuing. “We found Brandon at the Winston residence a couple of days ago. He was acting erratically and was in a hurry to leave.” She shrugs.
“Do you think he was there the whole time? This entire time while Baylee was gone?”
Stark stiffens and her dark eyes meet mine. “We have our suspicions that he may have been. We’re also concerned about Anthony Winston. He’s a missing person of interest.”
I run my fingers through my messy hair. “I’ve been sending money to them for her mother. They were withdrawing it too. This makes no sense. Baylee didn’t know she died. Jesus,” I groan and slam my eyes shut. “She’s going to be so fucking gutted.”
“Shilling, we need to check into the money. Follow the trail,” she barks out at him over her shoulder.
Shaking my head, I reopen my eyes. “Something is off here. I’d set Baylee up with a secure email to let them know she was okay while I kept her safe from Gabe. Her dad would reply but she’d said he sounded different in his responses. Angry and demanding. I’d assumed it was Gabe attempting to lure her back into his clutches. But now, I don’t know.”
“How do you know the money was being withdrawn, Mr. McPherson? If you wired it, you wouldn’t know if it was being spent or not.” Her eyes are darting back and forth as she attempts to figure out what the fuck is going on.
I sigh and glance at Dad who is frowning. “I’m,” I say, pausing to choose the least incriminating word, “resourceful on the computer. I followed the trail and noticed the money was being withdrawn. Baylee and I assumed it was for her mother’s benefit.”
Stark places a hand on her hip and sends me a knowing nod. “So you were resourceful,” she repeats carefully, “in the same way you were resourceful in finding a way to contact me in an untraceable way?”
I nod and take
a bite of the applesauce still sitting on the tray from my forgotten breakfast, hoping to push the bile down my throat. This shit is complicated and every second we waste, Baylee is in more danger.
“Mr. McPherson,” she bites out sharply. “I’m no fool. I have reason to believe you may have been connected in some illegal activities. However, I’m not one to pass up an opportunity to bring a child molester and sexual predator to justice. Additionally, I’m not one to ignore a lead to bringing down an entire sex ring. So, I’m going to take your word that Miss Winston was indeed your girlfriend and that she was staying with you as your guest, consensually. Until she tells me otherwise herself, I’m going to use your help on this investigation.”
Dad and I exchange a confused glance before she continues.
“That is why I’m going to have you use your resources to help us. Are you up to following any leads you have on Mr. and Mrs. Whitehead, the White Collar Trade, Anthony and Lynn Winston’s financial information, details about Brandon Thompson and his whereabouts, and everything you can glean from Gabriel Sharpe?”
Furrowing my brows, I nod. “Of course I am. I want to bring my girl home.”
“Good. My captain would have our asses if I brought the Feds in on this one. I don’t want their help—they’ll trample through this entire investigation with their bureaucratic bullshit and we’ll be removed. Our chances of finding Baylee will be less because they’ll focus on the WCT, not her. Besides, this story will bring national media attention to our precinct. We could finally get the funding we need to put a technical forensic analyst on payroll, which in this digital age, is necessary. At the moment, we don’t have one, which is why I could never track you down after you sent those messages. But now, we have one working for free. You. Pro bono, right?”
Shilling and Stark both stare at me with expectation in their eyes. Dad is frowning and now pacing with his arms crossed over his chest. But when he glances over at me with his lips pressed together in a firm line and nods, I turn my gaze back to Stark.
