8
Harlow
Four stories of distressed tan brick separated Harlow from his daughter. Clay, lime, and mortar. Wood, glass, and metal. Harlow lifted his chin and observed the rows of windows, expression neutral. Golden light glinted off the glass, obscuring what lay beyond from his view. It was of little consequence—whether he could see inside or not, hewouldfind what he was after.
The building had a flat roof. From where Harlow stood, it was impossible to see if it was accessible or not, but he considered it likely. If his preliminary attempts at locating Evie failed, he’d relocate there while he got in touch with Simon and reconfirmed Evie’s coordinates. If she’d moved, he’d follow. If she hadn’t moved, there was a chance that Simon could help him pinpoint what floor she was on, or, potentially, what room she was in. Harlow didn’t know the first thing about what could, or could not, be achieved by a man well-versed with technology, but Simon had never let him down before. The kid was smart. Scary smart. If Emerson was still around, Harlow had the feeling they would have been fast friends.
The kid and the dork—what a pair.
Harlow’s heart lurched. He released a controlled breath through his nose, then refocused his attention on the building. If he had to guess, the structure was close to seventy years old—the wear on the brick and mortar was indicative of exposure. While the facade was well-maintained for the most part, there were several details that had been allowed to persist that otherwise could have been fixed. Peeling paint on the wooden window frames, the accumulation of unsightly dirt on ground-level brick, a few cracked mortar joints… if those problems persisted on the outside, it was likely that there were similar, small problems left to worsen on the inside. Leaky faucets, unreliable appliances, stained countertops…
Maintenance issues gave Harlow the in he needed. With it, he’d get Evie out.
* * *
Prior to arrivingat the apartment building, Harlow had stopped by his hotel room to pick up a few of his belongings. The first, a clipboard on which he kept generic paperwork for Anderson Construction Company, a fictitious establishment that Harlow had invented out of necessity after starting as Evie’s bodyguard. The second, a bright orange mesh vest with reflective stripes he stowed in his luggage wherever he went, just in case it was needed. No matter how good his excuse, breaking and entering was still illegal. Being invited inside an apartment because of a misconception? Not entirely legal, but certainly more of a gray zone than entering by force.
“Alright,” Harlow said to himself. He drew his phone from his pocket and checked it one last time, hoping to see a message from Evie, but the flurry of texts and missed calls were primarily from her lawyer, Frankie Deckard, and her agent, Pete Rentz. Samara Sadler, Evie’s publicist, had sent Harlow a single text that simply said, “LOL.”
And what a sarcastic, hopeless LOL it was.
Harlow dismissed the notifications. When they were gone, all of the messages he’d been tagged in by his friends, the Single Dads, appeared. They were few, and he spared a second to read them before he got back to business.
TeenDad2: @LoveHarley, I miss youuuu. Please come back soon? Knot is driving me CRAZY.
KnotMyProblem: TD, @LoveHarley is too busy surfing and soaking up those golden Californian rays to hear you. You’re better off reaching him by tossing a bottle into the ocean.
Gwynning: You think if we keep tagging him, we can summon him? @LoveHarley
xVerity: Children. It’s very immature to keep tagging @LoveHarley senselessly. Behave, or I’ll sick @LoveHarley on you.
KnotMyProblem: What, so @LoveHarley can kill me with that big goofy grin of his? I don’t think he could bring himself to hurt an animal cracker, let alone the man who drank him under the table that one night in Aurora.
TeenDad2: Uh… gonna need @LoveHarley’s side of the story on this, ‘cuz that’s not how I remember the story going…
For the first time in what had been an exceptionally trying few hours, Harley snorted with laughter. He leaned against the wall, unlocked his phone, and shot back a quick response.
LoveHarley: omg you guys, you make me smile sometimes. I’m alive. I’m having a really shitty day at work, but everything’s gonna be okay :) I got this. Btw @Gwynning, @TeenDad2, @xVerity, I’m in Aurora rn. Idk if I’ll be able to plan a meet-up with you guys but wave if you see me in the streets, ok?
LoveHarley: PS when Knot says he drank me under the table, what he meant to say is that he drank HIMSELF under the table. I have some pretty incriminating pics on my phone… will share later. Gotta get back to work. Wish me luck.
Anticipating a flood of responses, Harlow set his phone to do not disturb, rolled his shoulders back, and set his sights on the apartment across the street once more. He’d been in worse places, dealt with worse people, and done worse things in order to achieve his goals. No matter who was inside, or how armed they happened to be, he wasn’t afraid. All that mattered was that he find Evie and get her out alive. He’d made a promise to Emerson, and he intended to keep it. Their daughter wouldn’t come to harm. No matter what it took, he’d keep her safe.
Harlow shrugged on his neon orange vest, ran a hand messily through his hair, clenched his fists a few times to get his blood flowing, and got to work.
* * *
“Hello, ma’am,”Harlow said flatly. He glanced down at his clipboard, then back up at the overweight woman in the dressing robe and fuzzy pink slippers who occupied the doorway. “I’m Jensen, here with Anderson Construction Company.”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Moe sent you here, didn’t he?”
“Moe, ma’am?”
“The landlord.” She huffed, and it ruffled the front of Harlow’s shirt. He resisted the urge to take a step back. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell him not to schedule contractors after hours. You’d think the man would get it through his thick skull after the last five times I complained, but no. Here you are at my door in the middle of dinner, knocking, disrupting the only meal my family gets to spend together.”
“Uh…” Harlow glanced at his clipboard again. “I’m just, uh, just… here to let you know that I’ll be doing some repairs on the third floor. You may be inconvenienced, and I’d like to extend apologies from Anderson Construction in advance. The noise should last no longer than an hour.”
The scorn on the woman’s face would have killed a lesser man. Harlow was glad he didn’t actually work in construction—he never would have survived.
