I track his phone first. Luke is still at the hotel in the city. The bug planted in his phone allows me to hear everything he does. Every move he makes.
I take note of his transgressions. I take note of each and every one. And I bide my time.
He’s fucking Megan again. High, again. He fucks her for thirty minutes and can’t come. She asks if he wants another line and he tells her to piss off.
“Is this about Isabella?” she snarls.
There is a growl, followed by a soft whimpering noise. I envision him with his hand around her throat, threatening her.
“What did I tell you?”
“Don’t say her name,” she chokes out.
There’s a sputtering cough, and then the sound of the door opening.
“Do you love her?” she asks.
There is a pause before he answers.
“So what if I do, kitten?” he taunts.
“Luke.” Her voice is desperate.
“What does it matter?” he replies. “You’re the one I fuck every night. Aren’t you?”
Chapter Five
Art agreesto speak with me while I’m back in Virginia.
The house that I grew up in is about an hour outside of Fairfax, which is where Art requests to meet. It’s at the same diner we’ve met at several times before, where the waitress knows him by name, and she doesn’t make a stink about us holding up the table for hours at a time.
I spend the afternoon with him. He feeds me pieces of information from the investigation and tries to make them sound promising. They don’t sound promising at all.
I still don’t believe what he’s telling me. Nevertheless, I continue to pursue my only hope. I plead with him to consider allowing me to contact Javi.
In the end, the result is the same.
I spend hours with him. Grilling him. Begging him. Wishing for any scrap of hope he could give me. It never comes. And eventually, he grows tired and unsympathetic.
He leaves me with the same line he always does. They will continue working on it.
The drive home is long and frustrating. I’m exhausted and I know I have to go back to Luke soon, but it’s the last thing I want to think about right now.
When I turn the knob on the front door, it’s unlocked. My palm hesitates on the handle, and I don’t remember leaving it that way. I rationalize. I can barely remember what day of the week it is, let alone basic safety precautions.
But when I step inside, I know. I know something isn’t right, even before I turn the corner and see the mess.
Someone has been in here. Someone has completely trashed the house in search of something. What, I don’t know.
My first instinct is to call the police. But then I think of Art.
This could be important. This could have something to do with my father’s disappearance.
I pull out the canister of pepper spray that I carry in my purse and walk through the house, checking to be sure whoever it is has gone.
When I’m certain that they are, I dial Art again. He answers with a sigh.
“Someone broke into the house,” I tell him. “I think they were looking for something.”