Little Girl Lost [Book 2]

by Alexandria Clarke

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  “Because you are far less conspicuous,” he replied. “We need to be there by noon, but the morning is yours to do what you please. I suggest an hour of yoga or similar meditation. Perhaps it will help you not to be so quick with a knife.”

  “That’s it?” I asked him as he bypassed the rest of his breakfast and made to leave the room. “Don’t you think I need a little bit more to go on? Who’s your contact? What restaurant am I meeting him at? What kind of information are you looking to get out of him?”

  He paused to look over his shoulder at me. “This is not your standard reconnaissance meeting. Today will require more finesse than usual. Do not disappoint me.”

  That was all he offered before turning on his heel and disappearing toward his enormous wing of the house. I picked up the croissant from the floor lest Austin be blamed for it later and headed for the safety of the kitchen. Whatever this meeting was for, I couldn’t let myself worry about it going wrong.

  At half past eleven, Fox and I took the car into town. He was silent for the entire ride, staring out at the light summer drizzle through the driver’s side window as the car piloted itself. He had yet to fill me in on the parameters of this meeting, so I had a feeling I would be going into it totally blind. Thankfully, the restaurant was well-known by the locals. In the view of the public eye, the risk levels were lower. Once again, he’d taped a wire to the inside of my shirt so that he could listen to the meeting. He had also hacked into the restaurant’s security cameras so that he could watch us on his laptop from his car. I almost wished that he had given me an earpiece. That way, if I got stuck, he would be able to feed me the questions that he wanted to ask. The car pulled out of traffic and idled alongside the curb.

  “The restaurant is three blocks that way,” he said, pointing up the busy sidewalk. “My contact should already be inside. Tell the hostess you have reservations for two, last name Lavalier, and she’ll take you to the correct table.”

  “You still haven’t told me what information I’m supposed to be procuring,” I reminded him, straightening out the front of my dress. Apparently, the fancy restaurant did not approve of pants or wrinkles.

  “My contact knows what to give you,” Fox replied. He pointedly avoided my gaze. “Once inside, you’ll understand. Stay for the entire meal and pick up the tab. We don’t want to look suspicious. Oh, and if you don’t mind, dig a little deeper. I’d like to know what my contact’s been up to for the past few years.”

  I rolled my eyes and pulled on a pair of black heels. “Sure. Sounds like a solid plan.”

  My spine stiffened as his fingers trailed across the skin of my back left bare by the dress. “You’ll know what to do. I have faith in you.”

  I shrugged off his touch. “I don’t need your faith.”

  I got out of the car before he could reply, opening a big, black umbrella to keep my hair and outfit safe from the drizzle. It was a humid day, and the sun was out despite the rain.

  “Devil’s beating his wife,” I muttered to myself as Fox’s car pulled away from the curb and disappeared around the corner. “How appropriate.”

  I stumbled a little as I started toward the restaurant, getting used to the heels. I hadn’t worn them since my clubbing days in Paris. In fact, I’d avoided them ever since. I preferred hiking boots or sneakers, which were easier to run in. After a few fumbling strides, my muscles remembered the tricks to a flawless runway walk, and I strolled up the avenue to envious, awestruck looks from sweatpants-clad freshman girls.

  The restaurant was a tiny place called Elements. The decor incorporated the four elements of nature, while the menu boasted appetizers, entrees, and cocktails inspired by the same. Every patron was dressed similarly to me, in casual but classy attire. Elements attracted a certain clientele. Each table was occupied by two or three middle-aged women with perfectly manicured nails and fresh hair styles from expensive salons. If I had to guess, these were the wives of the businessmen in town who had nothing better to do during the day than gossip with their friends in a tea shop.

  The hostess glanced up as I walked in. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I have reservations for two under Lavalier.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, checking her list. “Your friend is already here. Follow me.”

  Her heels and mine clicked across the tile floor in an unsteady rhythm as I circled the host stand and walked behind her. She beelined for a table in the far corner of the room, where Fox’s contact was shrouded in shadow behind a tall, fake palm tree.

  “Here you are,” the hostess said. “Enjoy.”

  “Thank you.” I slid into the free booth on the opposite side of the table, got a glimpse of my companion for the first time, and started in surprise. “You’re Fox’s contact?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  The voice, raspy and harsh from years of nicotine abuse, belonged to an older woman in her sixties with grassy green eyes, thinning hair dyed an alarming shade of orange, and lip liner that extended just a little too far around the borders of her mouth. At first glance, she was as well-dressed as the other women who dined regularly at Elements, but the more I studied her, the more I noticed. Her purse was a knock-off, the “leather” piping peeling away. Her watch and earrings were not real gold. Her blouse spoke vaguely of designer origins, but the pattern and colors seemed wrong, like she had bought it at one of the discount stores that sold leftovers from Nordstrom.

  “The bastard told me he was meeting me himself,” she said, rolling the stem of her Bellini glass between her thumb and forefinger so that the bubbles rose to the top and fizzled at the surface. “Where is he?”

  “As if he would really show up in person. Every cop—” I cut myself off as the server arrived at our table. I ordered a Bellini for myself and another for the mysterious woman sitting across from me then resumed our conversation when he left to fetch our drinks. “Every cop in North Carolina is looking for Fox.”

  The woman’s penciled eyebrows knitted together. “He lied to me again then. Told me everything was going well here.”

  “Who are you?” I asked her. “What does he want with you?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Yes, I would,” I said.

  The waiter returned with the drinks. I thanked him but left the pink peach and champagne combination to sweat on the table. Condensation beaded on the glass and rolled down to create a perfect circle on the white table cloth.

  “Are you ready to order?” he asked, taking a pen and notepad from his apron.

  I flipped open the menu to a random page and blindly picked a meal. “I’ll have the strawberry chicken salad.”

  The woman closed her menu with a snap. “Nothing for me.”

  “Oh, please,” I said. “Won’t you order something? I hate to dine alone.”

  The smile felt cold and empty on my cheeks, but it did the trick. The woman gave me an uneasy glare before ordering a roast beef sandwich and handing the menu back to the server. I rested my chin on my hands and studied the woman from across the table.

  “What?” she barked.

  “I’m just trying to figure you out,” I told her. “I’ve dealt with a lot of Fox’s clients, and I have to mention that you don’t quite fit the bill.”

  “I’m not a client,” she spat.

  “No, you’re an informant,” I reminded her. “Although that doesn’t make much sense to me either. It doesn’t seem like you and Fox would run in the same circles.”

  “I don’t think anyone willingly involves themselves with the likes of him, do they?” the woman asked.

  I thought back on my own experiences with Fox. “No, I guess not.”

  She drained her first Bellini, placed the empty glass at the edge of the table, and reached for the fresh one. “If he doesn’t show up himself, he won’t get what he wants from me. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Let me guess.” I lea
ned against the booth, suppressing a shiver as the bare skin of my back made contact with the cold pleather. “He’s blackmailing you. You’ve done something illegal or morally unsound or both, and he knows what it is, and now he’s exploiting you for it.” I pushed aside the Bellini and took a sip from my water glass instead. “His work has been all over the news lately. I highly doubt that you didn’t fit the pieces together. You figured if you lured him out in public, someone might see him for what he really is and rescue you from his grasp. He knows that. It’s why he sent me instead.” The woman’s mouth gaped like a fish begging to be put back in the water. I shrugged. “It’s what he does. I’m surprised you didn’t already know that.”

  When the food arrived, I unwrapped my silverware and floated the napkin over my lap, but as I began to eat, I noticed that the woman had not lifted her stare from my face. Steam rose from her sandwich, wafting the delicious scent of roast beef toward me.

  “Eat something,” I told her. “You’ll regret it later if you don’t.”

  She regarded the sandwich with lofty disdain. “Is he listening?”

  The wire taped to my bra shifted. “Yes.”

  The woman pushed her plate aside, leaned as far as possible across the table, and whispered into my ear for Fox to hear. “You are the shit on my shoes, renard.”

  A chill pulsed down my spine. I thought of Fox listening to our conversation from his car. Did he care about this woman’s opinion? Was he seething with rage at the insult or had he laughed away her disdain? Whatever the case, the French sounded curiously natural in her tone, as if she had perhaps grown up speaking it.

  “I need you to give me what he wants.” I chewed on a strawberry, the sweet and tart flavors mingling on my tongue. “I can’t leave here until you do.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll be stuck with the bill.”

  “It’s not my credit card.” I waved my fork at her sandwich. “Please eat. It looks delicious, and you look like you’re starving. We might as well make the most out of a free lunch, right?”

  The woman picked up her knife and fork, cut off a corner of the sandwich, and brought it to her mouth. A sigh of contentment escaped from her.

  “What’s your name?” I asked her. “Who are you to him?”

  “You know my name.”

  “Lavalier,” I recalled. “It’s French. Your accent says Louisiana. New Orleans, right? It doesn’t surprise me a bit that Fox stopped there. He loves to compare his home to what he thinks is a watered-down version of his culture.”

  “He didn’t just stop in New Orleans,” she grumbled. “He—”

  I tapped the front of my dress to remind her of the wire.

  “I used to own a voodoo shop,” the woman said instead. “Nothing of substance. Nothing real, of course, but it drew the tourists in.”

  “And he was one of them.”

  Her focus remained on the sandwich. She did not want to make any more eye contact with me, as if I might see the truth of her relationship with Fox written in her irises.

  “You don’t have to tell me everything.” I took one last bite of my salad before pushing the plate away. “But I do need whatever information you promised to him.” Her knife sliced through another portion of roast beef. I leaned forward. “I know what it’s like to have a past that you’re not proud of. We’re in the same boat here. Please just give me what I need to keep myself out of trouble, and I’ll do my best to ensure the same for you.”

  When she finally looked up at me, glossy tears reflected the light from the overhead lamp. “It’s a betrayal. I should never have agreed to this. It will break her heart. We’ll never speak again.”

  “Whose heart?” I asked gently. “What is it?”

  She sniffled and shoved her food away then drew a paper napkin toward her and scribbled something on it. “If you see her, tell her I’m sorry for not believing her. For not doing more when I had the chance. And for this.”

  The woman slid the napkin across the table then promptly stood up, collected her purse, and left the restaurant, her head bowed to hide the tears now flowing down her cheeks. I pulled the napkin toward me to examine her hasty scribbles. It was an address.

  That night, I lay in bed, watching the door to the room just in case it should turn to let in someone unwanted and fiddling with what Fox claimed was the only set of keys. He was in high spirits. After lunch, when I’d returned to his car and handed over the address, he had grinned from ear to ear and planted a quick kiss on my cheek before I could react. There was a genuine charm to the moment, as if for just one second, Fox allowed the icy barrier around his humanity to drop away. I didn’t trust it. Anything that made Fox happy almost always turned out to be a curse for someone else, and since I was closest in proximity to him, I was most likely to get hit with the aftershocks of whatever he was planning. He’d tucked the napkin in the front pocket of his suit jacket, but I’d memorized the address scribbled in faded blue pen long before I handed it over. Back at the mansion, I typed the numbers into Fox’s laptop and hit enter. The address belonged to a house in the suburbs of the city. It was close by, not even forty-five minutes away.

  The dark night pressed against me from all around. Even in the gigantic bedroom, I felt claustrophobic. Fox was up to something. The woman in the restaurant had been downright petrified to hand over the address, and Fox was far too pleased with the results not to take it seriously. I sat up, mulling over my options. Finally, curiosity got the better of me, so I pulled on my jeans from the day before and opened one of the windows that lined the bedroom. It was a long drop to the ground below, but a row of thick shrubs promised a semi-soft landing. I swung my legs through the window, took a deep breath, and jumped.

  I stifled a groan as branches crunched beneath me, digging into my skin through my clothes. The other windows of the massive house were all dark. A good sign. I made a break across the sweeping front lawn, scaled the ivy-covered stone walls that encircled the property, and jumped down to the other side. Just like that, I was out of Fox’s hands. Unfortunately, I knew couldn’t take my freedom and run with it. I had to return before he realized I was missing. Otherwise, he would only hunt me down again.

  I walked to the main road before calling a cab. When it arrived, the driver didn’t speak to me except to ask for directions. I gave him the address from the napkin. Then we were off, whizzing through the dark night toward an unknown future. The forty-five minute drive passed quickly, and we arrived in the shadowy neighborhood before I had the chance to close my eyes for a nap. It was as if time was playing with me, refusing to let me savor the time I had away from Fox.

  “Thanks,” I said to the cab driver, handing him a few folded bills. “Do you mind sticking around? This won’t take long.”

  “Whatever.”

  The cab idled in the street. Thankfully, the front door of the house was around the side, out of the driver’s view. I didn’t worry about looking suspicious as I bypassed the entryway and peeked into a window instead. This was the kitchen and living room area. It was small and cozy, just big enough for two or three people to move around each other comfortably. Bright yellow curtains framed the windows. A tabby cat sniffed at a treat jar on the counter. Children’s artwork decorated the fridge. What did Fox want with this place?

  A lilting classical tune floated on the wind. A window on the second story was open. Baby blue curtains billowed in the summer breeze. The branches of an old oak tree tickled the side of the house. Without thinking, I hoisted myself into the shadows of the leaves and gradually made my way upward until I was level with the open window. I crouched like a cat on a sturdy branch and peered inside. It was a child’s room. The walls were painted a pretty sky blue. Stuffed animals were perched on the dresser. A little boy was fast asleep in a bed shaped like a race car. I inched forward. There was something familiar about the child, the shape of his face, the brightness of his blond hair. A chill washed over me. It couldn’t be.

  There was something innately disturbing
about stepping into a child’s room uninvited, but I couldn’t help it. I had to know. I maneuvered myself through the open window, careful to keep the tree branch from bouncing violently against the pane. The boy remained fast asleep as my feet touched down on the soft carpet. I crept toward the bed. And got a faceful of mace.

  The overhead light switched on as I coughed and spluttered. My eyes streamed as they tried to rid themselves of the spicy spray. The room dissolved into blurry chaos. Someone else had been sleeping beside the boy. Now they sprang up from the tiny mattress and dove at me. The tackle had no weight behind it, and the shoulder placement was all wrong. If my vision was clear, I could have avoided the hit with no problem. As it was, the person sat on my chest to pin me to the floor.

  “Who are you?” a voice, female, demanded. “What are you doing in my house?”

  She raised the bottle of mace again, but I waved my hands in a desperate plea. “Wait!” I gasped. “Please, I’m not going to hurt you!”

  “You broke into my house! You’re in my kid’s room!”

  “I know, but—”

  “I’m calling the police.”

  She rolled her weight off of me, but I made a wild grab for her arm and held her back. “No, wait! Does the name Fox mean anything to you?”

  The blurry room slowly came into focus as the mace wore off. The woman was petite and pretty, with green eyes and light brown hair. The boy hid under the covers of the bed, peeking out at me from beneath the blankets. His eyes, as I had feared, were a bright clear blue.

  “You know him,” I breathed, studying the woman’s tight expression. “He’s your son’s father, isn’t he?”

  Ten minutes later, I sat at the kitchen island downstairs, where the woman set a cup of tea and a homemade chocolate chip cookie in front of me. I dabbed at my stinging eyes with a damp paper towel.

  “Talk,” she ordered.

  The boy, who had followed us downstairs, stared longingly at the dessert. I pushed it toward him.