Chapter 12
Three weeks later
I take off my glasses and rub my eyes, exhausted from researching missing persons, when my phone buzzes with a message. Taylor’s name lights up the screen.
Taylor: Don’t stay up so late.
I smile, heart relieved at being able to do something as ordinary as texting my best friend.
For over a year, I was lost in a sea of worry, trying to imagine where she was, if someone had hurt her, or even if she was still alive.
Taylor Jarvis vanished into thin air.
At first, I thought maybe she’d had enough and just left. But it didn’t take me long to be sure that wasn’t the case. From the time we’d spent together, Taylor never struck me as the kind of girl who’d just walk away from everything. She didn’t even cancel her lease.
And now, almost a year since she was rescued—two years total since she was taken—I’m still working remotely and teaming up with so-called internet sleuths, looking for missing people across the country.
I get up to grab a coffee in the kitchen, and while I wait for the machine to brew my espresso, I’m already dreading the second part of my daily search on the unidentified bodies sites—the Janes Does.
It always leaves me depressed. I think about the thousands of families around the world who can’t identify their loved ones. Not knowing is worse than death. Death offers closure, rest, a grave to visit. A disappearance, like Taylor’s, is just a massive question mark. A void.
My friend, like so many other young women across the country, left work the day she got fired from the bar and was never seen again.
But I never gave up on finding her. I wasn’t going to stop until I had answers.
Taylor had no one else looking out for her.
Despite her millionaire boyfriend, William, showing up to talk to me in the first few weeks after she disappeared, I doubt he kept trying for very long.
As far as I know, to men like him, girls like Taylor are disposable.
Leaning against the island counter, I glance at the dark living room and realize I forgot to turn on the light.
The darkness, as always, reminds me of him. Lucifer hasn’t shown up again—and I don’t just mean physically. After what happened that night almost two months ago, when I basically poured my heart out, he hasn’t even been following me.
Yes, I still have men watching me.
I’ve lived with these silent watchers for too long to ignore their presence, but I know Lucifer himself hasn’t been back.
At first, in those early days, I was panicked with worry.
Then I realized that if something had happened to him, the man who’s been watching me—or the men—would have pulled back.
Which means Lucifer is still paying them. He just doesn’t want to see me anymore.
After three weeks of total silence, I tried to move on. I even started dating someone.
It lasted less than five days. He was handsome, charming, sweet—but he suggested an open relationship.
That alone would’ve been a dealbreaker for me, but what really pissed me off was the fact that he forgot to mention a key detail: his suggestion came after he’d already biblically known another woman the day before.
As in, lock the door—well, in this case, leave it wide open—after the house’s already been robbed.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream, because honestly, I didn’t feel a single ounce of attachment to him. I was already thinking about calling it quits.
Lesson learned: lukewarm isn’t good enough. Either it’s hot, or you’d be better off starving.
Getting hit with the suggestion of an open relationship by a guy whose kiss you barely liked? Peak absurdity.
I’ve decided I’m staying single until someone truly worth it comes along. A man who makes my knees weak and my heart race.
“Like him,” whispers a masochistic little voice.
Kissing Lucifer was a mistake. I thought I’d die if I never knew what his mouth tasted like, what it felt like to have my body pressed against his.
Now it’s worse. It’s impossible not to compare everyone else to him. To how I felt in his arms.
Still standing in the kitchen, I grab my phone and reply to my friend’s message.
“Don’t you have a hot boyfriend to take care of you? What the hell are you doing texting me when you could be using that body?”
Taylor: I’m scared I’ll get addicted to him.
Me: Sorry, love, but I think you’re about two years too late for that. You’ve always been crazy about him, Taylor. Enjoy your life.
I know she and William still have a lot to work through. No couple is perfect—but from where I stand, they’re perfect together.
I’m about to head back to the living room when I see a shadow move past my door. My heart leaps, but I tell myself it can’t be a break-in. I’m protected. Watched. Like I’ve always been.
Still, I head to the bedroom and grab the baseball bat that belonged to my brother. Armed with it, I peer through the peephole—but no one’s outside.
I live in a secure building with hallway cameras, far as I know, so I take a deep breath and open the door.
There’s a package on the floor.
If I were paranoid, I might think it’s a bomb. But again, my faith in Lucifer’s protection is unshakable, so I crouch and pick up the box.
I go back in and lock the door, leaning against it.
I set the bat aside and unwrap the lightweight package. I’m surprised to find a cell phone.
There’s a note inside the box.
“Turn it on, Jackie.
L.”
With my heart racing, I do as he says.