“Really?” I muttered.
Before long, the open house was wrapped up, and we headed back to the office, signage and leftover applications in hand. The latter only added to my mother’s growing irritation as she continued her silent treatment, huffing and muttering to herself about the lack of people showing up to the open house.
Truthfully, I wasn’t bothered that she refused to talk to me. I was anxious to speak with Dad, to see if he had any answers about Dean’s whereabouts. So, when we got back to the real estate agency and Mom went straight to her office, I didn’t stay long.
I let Candice, my fellow receptionist, know where I was going and left without waiting for her response.
When I arrived at the organized crime units building and was told to wait outside my father’s office — a familiar scene — I tried not to pay attention to the guns strapped to everyone’s hips this time. I was too distracted anyway with questions racing through my head.
I wanted to know who Gabriele was talking about over the phone when he mentioned medical records; I wanted to know why my father hadn’t said anything in response to the photos I sent; I wanted to know where the hell Dean was after hearing absolutely nothing from him since yesterday.
It didn’t help that the blinds of Dad’s office were closed over, making it impossible to see if he was talking to anyone.
“Waiting for Dad, huh?” The gruff voice pulled me from my thoughts, and I looked to my left.
Detective Paul Crowley. I had no opinion on him, but he also didn’t seem like the kind of man I wanted to get to know.
“Yep,” I said tightly, smiling politely. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
At a desk beside Crowley’s was another detective I hadn’t seen before. He was younger, with light brown hair and a near-permanent smirk in the corner of his mouth. Something about him seemed familiar, though.
He gave me a small smile, but instead of introducing himself, he went back to reading whatever was on his computer. Out of the pair, he was the only one to notice I wasn’t in the mood for talking while I waited.
Crowley, on the other hand, continued his questions. “Did your dad know you were coming?”
“Ah, no. But what I want to talk to him about is kind of urgent.” I shouldn’t have said that to a detective. They were naturally curious.
“What kind of urgent? Maybe I could help.”
“It’s private. But thanks…” I focused on my father’s office door, willing it to open already.
When it finally did, I straightened expectantly, readying myself to question him about everything I had worried about over the morning, but that plan was quickly squashed when Dad stepped back to hold the door open for someone in the office with him.
Dean.
He stepped into view with his head down and broad shoulders slumped, moving with a pained sort of stiffness that he masked with a stoic frown. His shirt was covered in black smudges and dried blood spots. Small slices in the material made me realize the blood was his. There were tiny scratches on his skin. They marked his arms too, one of which was wrapped with a bandage.
It wasn’t until he looked up that a graze on his cheekbone was revealed, along with more black smudges like the ones on his shirt. As if an artist had smeared his skin with spots of charcoal.
His eyes were almost glazed when they finally came to me, rimmed with red and dark circles. He hadn’t slept.
I stood slowly and moved towards him, barely registering when Dad asked me to step into his office.
Dean’s eyes were almost empty until he noticed my hair. The faintest of smiles appeared on his lips, and his eyes softened.
“What happened?” I whispered, carefully reaching for his cheekbone where the graze was. My thumb brushed through the black smudge near it, finding it sooty. Like ash.
“Your boyfriend stupidly discharged himself from the hospital too early, is what happened,” Dad said.
Dean muttered, “I hate hospitals,” right as I said, “Why were you in the hospital?”
“Maybe we should talk about it outside.” The soft tone of Dean’s voice indicated that not everyone should hear about what happened.
“Okay…” I looped the strap of my bag over my shoulder, eager to leave again.
“Didn’t you want to discuss something with me?” Dad said, referring to the images and video I sent.
“Not anymore. Talk it over with your colleagues.” My worries about Gabriele had drifted to the back of my mind. I couldn’t give a fuck about him, not when Dean looked like he had walked out of a burning house.
