He said nothing. Just reached around me and turned the burner knob, shutting off the gas.
“There’s bacon in the oven.”
He shut that off, too.
Good thing I hadn’t yet pushed down the lever on the toaster. The sourdough would be scorched by now.
“Cade, your breakfast?—”
“Eggs are great, beautiful. But right now, there’s something else I’d rather eat.”
Holy shit.
All thoughts of breakfast flew right out of my head. He pulled the spatula from my limp hand and set it on the counter. Turning me around to face him, he lifted me into his arms with his hands beneath my thighs, then carried me three steps to the kitchen island. I quickly found myself deposited on top of it. Even more quickly, I found the boxers ripped down my body and tossed across the room.
The only thought in my head as he spread my legs and knelt between them was that, suddenly, I saw the merits of becoming a morning person. Then, his tongue hit my clit and I didn’t think anything at all.
* * *
Looking back, I was glad the day started on such a high note; the rest of it was one long, downward spiral into despair and depression. Rory had been missing for more than a day. The situation was no longer just dire.
It was desperate.
After Cade left for work — and left me stranded at his house — I’d called Gwen to find out if The Gallows was opening for business at noon, as scheduled. I wasn’t at all surprised when she informed me the hipsters could wait another day for their turmeric-ginger lattes. The search party took precedence.
She graciously offered me a ride there — one I happily accepted. More so when I saw her car. She drove a badass, vintage, turquoise blue Ford Thunderbird from the late 1960s, which she’d inherited from her eclectic Aunt Colette. (Along with nearly everything else she owned.) It was the exact model Thelma and Louise drove off the cliff at the end of the movie, and kept in absolutely pristine condition.
Classic Gwendolyn Goode.
An hour before volunteers were set to gather at the elementary school, Gwen drove me to The Sea Witch. She waited around while I took a shower and changed into my last clean pair of jeans and a ribbed, pale pink sweater that perfectly matched my suede gloves. I was getting down to the bottom of my duffle; I’d have to find a laundromat soon, otherwise swing by that thrift shop I’d seen around the corner from The Gallows to replenish my closet. When I’d left Atlantic City, I’d unfortunately also left the majority of my clothing behind. (Adrian had no doubt tossed them down the trash chute of his high rise the second he realized I wasn’t coming back.)
We were hoping to see Gigi at The Sea Witch but instead, Rhonda the night manager was manning the desk, looking dour-faced as ever in the daylight hours. She informed us that Georgia was at the police station with her mom and sister, who’d flown in from Oregon on a redeye in a show of support. At noon, Gigi was scheduled to give a statement to the public during the SPD press conference.
I was glad she’d have family there, standing by her side. God knew her O’Banion relatives wouldn’t be doing the same. I sent her a text to let her know I was thinking about her as Gwen drove us to the elementary school. There were already dozens of people there when we arrived. I searched the crowd for Cade’s tall form, but only saw Chief Coulter in the crowd, standing on the perimeter with several agents in FBI windbreakers.
The search party was both well organized and well attended. Volunteers came out in droves to help law enforcement comb neighborhoods, abandoned lots, graveyards, and tracts of woods that abutted the city. We were divided into groups and assigned to different sectors. Tracking dogs, trained to follow the scent of Rory’s pajamas, moved with each unit. The sight of the little silver spaceships on the fabric made my eyes fill with tears. I looked away so they wouldn’t fall.
There were other dogs, too. No one told me, but I knew what they were. Cadaver dogs. I didn’t like to think about what they were trained to sniff or why we needed them today. When I did, my throat felt too tight to draw breath. They moved with agility, as did their handlers, alert eyes scanning their surroundings along with the crowd.
Before he’d rushed out the door for the day, Cade confided over a hurried breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast that the search party was a two-pronged effort. The police were looking for leads, of course, but they were also looking closely at the volunteers.
Sometimes, the perpetrator inserts themselves into the investigation,he’d told me, looking grim.Adds to the thrill of the crime.
I tried not to stare at the dozens of locals who showed up to help, but it was easier said than done. The possibility that whoever had taken Rory was wearing the same orange VOLUNTEER vest as me… searching the same grid of land…. pretending to help solve the very atrocity they had committed…
My teeth ground together with rage as I walked, eyes to the ground, just as the FBI search coordinator had instructed.
Gwen and I were assigned to the same sector of the dog park, along with Florence and her boyfriend Desmond, who I finally had a chance to meet properly. A professor of folklore at the local university, he was handsome in a quiet, bookish sort of way. He had dark blond hair, nerdy glasses, and ink splatters on his fingertips. He also seemed to worship the ground Florence walked on.
I liked him instantly.
Overhead, the whir of helicopter blades was a constant soundtrack to our search efforts. They flew in low loops over the harbor, where divers were scouring the depths beneath the docks. Their panoramic cameras zoomed in on the men in neon green uniforms scattered across town, searching dumpsters behind local businesses and warehouses.
More fodder for the 24/7 news cycle.
Later that night, when the search party broke apart, Gwen dragged us all back to her house. We sat on her sofa, watching that same helicopter footage play on repeat, and a bitter taste gathered on my tongue. The bobble-headed newscaster was just doing her job, but I still glared at her through the screen as she read off her teleprompter.
“Waste Management employees searched dozens of dumpsters this afternoon across the Salem area. Though authorities did not officially confirm this activity was related to Rory O’Banion, the boy who went missing on Halloween night, a source close to the investigation confirmed that all possibilities, from rescue to recovery, are on the table,” she parroted. “Police, FBI, and private investigators continue to work in tandem to solve this mystery that has gripped one of New England’s oldest communities…”