“Carter? You there?” Ryder mumbles, chewing loudly. “What’s going on?”
A battle rages inside my head. It’s won quickly by the need to protect her, even if protecting her means betraying her trust. The sooner I find the evidence, the sooner this ends—the sooner Hailey’s safe.
I can’t brush this idea under the table. It’s a chance to dissect this mess, and a chance is all I fucking need.
“I need the call and text records from Hailey’s old phone.”
“Her dad’s a cop. Don’t you think he would’ve wiped them?”
I butt out the cigarette, immediately lighting another. “We’re not dismissing ideas based ondon’t you think. Do it. Dig deep. I need a breakthrough, Ryder.”
“Alright, but don’t get your hopes up. Vaughn doesn’t strike me as someone who makes rookie mistakes.”
“I know. Just... find what you can. And check out Officer Matthews while you’re at it.”
“Matthews...” he echoes, probably jotting the information down. “Got it. Am I looking for anything specific on him?”
“He’s supposedly Vaughn’s most trusted friend. I need to know if he can really be trusted or if he’s taking bribes like the rest of them.”
Running a check on the guy was on my way long to-do list, but the shit with Jensen, the trip to Boston, Hailey getting lost in the woods, her flashbacks, and Rhett bugging my phone, took center stage, sending Matthews into the background.
Hailey’s turning my brain to fucking mush.
44
Hailey
Clutching my phone, I stare atDadin the sparse contact list, gearing up the courage to send the call.
I want to go home.
Not forever, just a few days, one weekend. Two nights. I know Dad will immediately sayno, so I’ve been crafting a fool-proof plan, hoping he’ll agree.
I need to see my room, our house,him. I want to sift through my personal belongings and find out if anything triggers a relevant memory.
The flashback with the gun haunts my sleep, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember any more details. The more I push it, the further from an answer I drift.
My mind’s not playing ball.
I’ve been getting different memories of Alex back lately, shifting from the painful and gruesome ones that set off panic attacks, to those that leave me melancholic. Those that don’t mention the case he’s been working on, the girl he fell in lovewith, or the risks he was taking. And Iknowthe risks, the case, and the girl are what’s important.
Not the beginning of our relationship when he sent me to the hairdresser and bought me pretty dresses and jewelry. None of that matters.
If I go home, see my room, maybe find Alex’s t-shirt in my wardrobe, I might get back on track.
I need a catalyst like the gun was. Something powerful.
Maybe Alex will find out I came to visit and he’ll stop by? God knows I don’t want him anywhere near me, but I bet he’d trigger a lot of memories.
Still, it’s wishful thinking. Dad would never let that happen. If—and that’s a hugeif—he lets me come home, he’ll probably board the windows and chain me to the radiator, so I can only move inside the house.
I made a mistake telling Dad and Matthews about Alex and me. Now they’ll keep him away at all costs.
Over the past few days I’ve begun to understand the progression of our relationship. My diary’s half full, the flashbacks hitting daily, sometimes a few times a day.
I had a crush on Alex. He was there for me when no one else was. When my dad worked fourteen-hour shifts, leaving me at home alone. Still grieving my mother, I kept to myself at college. Alex was the only bit of meaningful human interaction I had for months. He listened. He asked questions about Mom. He helped me navigate the pain and come out on the other side almost unscathed.
Almost whole. Enough that I’d trust him while he disassembled me, then put me back together, adding the pieces of the girl he really wanted.
