She hid him from me. For years. And now she's gone, leaving me nothing but breadcrumbs and an ever-growing rage.
"Tristan."
I blink, forgetting for a minute that Aaron's still standing there.
"What?"
"I asked if you want me to keep digging."
"No." I close my laptop. "I'll handle it."
He crosses his arms tightly across his chest, clearly displeased. "I don't think that's smart."
"I don't care what you think. And since when do you question me?"
"Since you stopped sleeping and started burning cigarettes into your furniture like some kind of deranged lunatic. You don't even smoke."
I glance at the table. He's right. Perfect circles are scorched into the wood where I held them until they died.
"New table arrives Friday," I reply flatly, shrugging.
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
He exhales loudly. "The point is you're being a bigger dick than usual, and you're obsessing too hard—which means it won't be long before people start ending up in pieces."
So I take care of problems. There's nothing wrong with that.
"Good, that's the exact mood I'm going for. Glad it's working for me."
"Tristan—"
"Thanks for the concern, bud. Now do get out. Say hi to the wife."
"Fine." He heads for the door but then pauses, glancing back at me. "For what it's worth? Whoever took her knew what they were doing. But you're smarter than them. Try to outsmart yourself, and maybe you'll get somewhere."
How profound.
The door clicks shut.
I sit in the silence, letting it all press against my ribs while I try to figure out where to go from here. The city hums outside—sirens, traffic, the metal screech of a bus braking too hard three blocks away.
It's all just background noise at this point. Everything in my life is these days.
Why am I still looking for her? Why can't I just let it go?
My phone vibrates on my desk.
Nick
Got a name. He's a Doyle accountant. Seems like a quiet guy who handles the offshore stuff. Want the address?
I type back immediately.
Me
Send it.
