“So this is my fault? You’re the one?—”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Clayton swipes a hand through the air. “Forget it.” A stand-off of unspoken apologies weighs heavily between us, his glare meeting mine. We’re both stubborn bastards, and there’s too much bad blood here to pretend we’re going to get along. Still, I briefly close my eyes, forcing the ache back down where it belongs.
“You think I haven’t replayed that moment a thousand times?” My voice trembles with the kind of fury that comes from heartbreak, not rage. “How she looked at me before walking outthe door, like she’d rather face life alone than be with only me.” I press a hand over my sternum, feeling the blood seeping into the T-shirt. “She left me. Ilether leave me because I knew I wasn’t enough. I can’t give her whatever she gets from you.”
Clayton’s quiet for a moment. A moment that lasts for an eternity between my heart and my soul, his judgment pressing in. Then, when he speaks, the pity in his voice is even worse than I imagined it would be.
“You love her.”
“As much as you do,” I answer flatly. It’s a bitter confession I’ve been denying for too long. There’s no denying it now. If I’m capable of love, then sure, Harper can have it. Not that it’s doing her any good now. Clayton’s eyes flick up, the surprise there for only a heartbeat before exhaustion takes over again.
“Then we find her,” he states as if we can conjure up a lead by purely willing it into existence. But it beats sitting here feeling useless. Dragging in a deep breath that shakes on the way out, I nod.
“Okay, let’s go through this again. Tell me everything you know about Kenneth, don’t leave out a single damn detail.” I’ve already heard Clayton’s statement to the police officer when they caught up to him here, but I listen to him relay it again, every detail, every lead, every threat.
Clayton has already deduced that this Antonio kid must be Kenneth’s cousin and that they grew up in adjacent neighborhoods. We connect the dots, figuring the ‘murderer’ written over his college jacket didn’t relate to Clayton’s brother at all, but to Antonio. It was Kenneth visiting Clayton’s mom. It was his job at Toadfully Caffeinated that enabled him to drug Harper’s coffee. Kenneth was present when needed and coincidentally wasn’t when he should have been, but not everything aligns. I can’t imagine he has the secret offshore bank account that was used to blackmail Peterson.
Coming to a dead end, in particular on where he would take Harper and why he’d take her anywhere in the first place, I run a frustrated hand through my hair.
“Again,” I demand. Clayton groans and pushes to his feet.
“There’s nothing else,” he shrugs unhelpfully. I track him towards the window, noticing how an amber light bleeds through the glass, announcing the arrival of dawn. She’s been missing an entire night, and we’re still no closer to finding her. Every second that passes feels like a deliberatefuck youcarved into the clock. The invisible collar at my neck is tightening, making it harder to breathe.
“There has to be more. We will tear this apart over and over until something makes sense.” It isn’t lost on me that one of the officers from the kitchen has edged closer, a notepad in hand as he scribbles a summary of everything we’re saying. We’re doing their damn jobs for them. Clayton leans on the windowsill, his breath fogging the glass.
“All I can come up with is that he blames me for his cousin’s death. But that doesn’t explain why he’s targeted you and Harper.” A tic beats in my jaw. Revenge is the worst type of motive. This isn’t a jealous weirdo playing games. This is someone who’s been nursing a rage and a narrative in his twisted mind, and whatever that narrative is, it’s dangerous for all of us. Opening my mouth, Clayton suddenly straightens and beckons me over. “Hey, look. Something’s going on.”
Coming to stand beside him, I peer out of the window, squinting to get a better look. Detectives cluster around one in the center, holding up a pair of photos, and the room around me seems to tilt. The air in my lungs burns, crying to be freed from the confines I’ve trapped it in. The images are grainy but unmistakable. The first is a front-facing shot of an ugly orange truck. Inside, there’s a shadowed figure behind the wheel and a passenger slumped against the window, held upright by herseat belt, her hair like a curtain over her face. In the second, the truck's tail has been captured on I-80 East beneath a highway sign.
“Where is he taking her?” I ask Clayton in a low, threatening tone.
“Home,” is the one-word response I receive, and it’s enough to set my blood on fire. Like lava coursing through my veins, I tremble in a bid to contain the impending outburst. I was naive to think they’d be nearby, relying on Kenneth’s lack of balls to chicken out and bring her straight back, but it’s clear that’s not the case. We’re not going to find any answers here at Waversea. Clayton and I lock eyes for a second, two halves of a plan snapping together without the need to discuss it.
“I can have my jet here within the hour,” I state, leaning in closer than I’m comfortable with. “But we need something to work with.” Jerking my chin towards the kitchen, Clayton spots the brown files on the island. To my surprise, he nods and slips away without the argument I was expecting. If he keeps obeying my every whim, we’re going to get along brilliantly.
Pulling my cracked phone out of my pocket, I light up the screen just as a lieutenant strides into the living room.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Master Waversea,” he says, all faux sympathy and a moustache that could hide a dozen lies. As if we have all the time in the world, he motions for me to sit. I don’t sit. Keeping Clayton in my eye line, I round the room, directing the lieutenant’s attention my way.
“Unfortunately, you have kept me waiting. I’m bloodied, and I’m bored.” Striding toward the staircase, Clayton meets me there, ignoring those in the kitchen who have distracted themselves with Harper’s coffee machine. My knuckles crack at the audacity, but one problem at a time. The lieutenant still has his eyes on me. “I’m going to clean up so I can be the best witness I can be,” I drawl sarcastically.
“With Master Michaels?” he raises a brow.
“I’m afraid so. He massages my balls whilst I wash my hair,” I call back without missing a beat, whereas Clayton slips and stumbles up the stairs. Entering my bedroom, Clayton closes the door as I swivel on him.
“Well?” I scowl, dropping the pretense. He rolls his eyes, pulling a brown folder out from where he tucked it into the back of his rented slacks beneath his shirt. I snatch it, hiding any notion that I’m impressed. There’s no time to stroke his ego, especially since I still blame him.
It’s his fault I didn’t spend my birthday night caged between Harper’s legs. She could have been here. Safe and cared for. I might have even let him watch again, but we’ll never know now. Even once I’ve got her back, that mushy streak of generosity is gone. I’m claiming her as mine and only mine. She doesn’t even get a choice anymore. I’ll chain her to my bed and never let her see daylight again.
Tossing my phone at Clayton with a few harshly barked orders, he contacts the aircraft management company whilst I dive into a thirty-second shower. Whilst relishing the burn as reddened water swirls towards the drain, I rush to come up with a plan. The campus is swarming with cops, and somewhere out there, my father is lurking. We need to get out of here without being seen by any of the cops swarming the place and the reporters at the scene. I’ll be damned if we give Dickerson the heads-up that we’re coming for him. And that’s without considering my father is lurking around somewhere, no doubt planning to pay me a visit any moment.
Nothing will stop me from finding my girl and tearing that bastard apart before anyone else gets the chance.
Chapter Three
Kenneth tells me about that night in broken fragments, switching between rushed rambling and moments of quiet that I never thought would end. He relives how he was woken by police pounding on the door that morning, informing him that his cousin had been killed in a heist gone wrong. It was so out of character, he tells me, and Kenneth didn’t get the answers he was seeking until the court hearings. He attended every single one, listening to Clayton’s confession. Clay took the entire blame, no doubt to protect his mom from the gang he was trying to join. I can’t imagine they’d take kindly to him snitching.
At last, I’m thankful for the dark. Tears roll down my cheeks, a bittersweet smile trembling at the corners of my mouth. That’s Clayton, forever noble, even when I’m sure he wasn’t to blame. He was a kid. They all were.
