Fuck. I don’t want to remember why I started dating him in the first place. Why I knew something was wrong. Why I was stalking him for months.
But then it comes flooding in, all the pieces fitting perfectly to form a picture I want to incinerate.
Instincts, that's what we were always told to rely on as cops.
Instincts that made me be around Elliot. Learn everything about him. Literally follow him like a stalker. Bait him. Spend as much time with him as I possibly can.
Instincts that are insisting I need to find him and ask himwhat the fuck.
My phone lights up with another call, but I decline it. I'm on a mission. I dial Elliot's number. Straight to voicemail.
I groan loudly and start pacing in my living room.
Why is his phone switched off even if he’s traveling?
My mind gladly supplies me with the scared look on Elliot’s face yesterday morning when he woke up. He flinched when he looked at me.Why?Did he know I was going to find out about him? Is he on the run?
Well, not for long. He doesn’t get to run away from me, not after playing me like a fool.
Because that’s all this was, wasn’t it? Distraction. All of it. He must get off on the idea of defeating me at every step. Laughing at my inability to see what was right in front of me. Laughing atme.
He had his fun turning me into this lovesick idiot who’ll follow him around like a puppy vying for his attention, and now heleaves? Just like that?
Fuck no.
I think back to all the time we spent together. He was so closed off, completely unwilling to let people in. I thought it was because he didn’t trust people easily. I was willing towork to earn it. Hell, Iput inthat work.
None of my parents’ talks about love said what to do when you find out your lover moonlights as a serial killer.
I laugh at the thought. And once I start, I can’t stop. I wheeze until there’s a stitch in my side. I clutch my desk and chuckle until I feel empty.
I slump down on the chair and look at his clinic's name again.
My phone vibrates again, and this time I pick it up.
“What is it?” I snap.
“Nicholas, it’s Sam,” a man's voice says. “Elliot's friend.”
What game is this now? “What?”
“Have you met him since yesterday?” His voice sounds worried. I try hard to detect any trace of deception, but come up empty. Maybe Elliot was playing Sam, too.
“I left his place yesterday morning. But he texted me he’s leaving,” I tell him. That’s the nice thing to do. Sam did nothing wrong.
“No,” he breathes out. “I received the same message, but he couldn't have sent it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, annoyed.
“Something is wrong,” he says ominously. “Elliot is missing.”
I sigh. I don’t have the patience for this. Not right now. “Listen, Sam, if he says he left, maybe he left. People leave. They break your trust, stomp on your heart, and flee. You can’t trust anyone, really,” I say. “You—”
“While this is very entertaining, and I’d love to hear more of you waxing poetics about Elliot. Butlistento me, he is missing. He wouldn’t leave without telling me. Wherever he is, it’s not by choice. Please find him,” he pleads.
No point talking sense into him when we want the same thing.Finding Elliot. “I can visit his house? If he’s not there, I can break in and see if he leftwillingly,” I try to go easy on the sarcasm. “Do you know the security code for the door?” Might as well get some assistance while he’s here.
“I’ll text you,” he says urgently.
