Chapter 17 The Chase
THE CHASE
QUINTON
Two and a half hours. That's how long Emery's been gone.
Anxiety gnaws at me as I pace around the ballroom, the hour hand on my watch nearly reaching midnight.
I know I should give her space, allow her the autonomy she needs to sort through the mess of emotions we're all entangled in.
But the uncertainty of what she and Damon might be doing together eats at me.
I rub my temples, trying to soothe the unease. Despite the party, the chatter, the excitement of an impending new year, the villa feels eerie, almost suffocating as each passing minute feels like a damn eternity.
What are they doing? What is he doing? For her? To her? Is she okay?
My mind spins, and I’m trapped between wanting to respect her choices and wanting to protect her from whatever chaos Damon plans to unleash.
With a frustrated sigh, impatience wins, and I decide to head to Damon's room. It's a compromise, a way to check on her without being overbearing.
I want to barge in. But I don’t. I knock. It kills me but I knock. And then I knock again. And again. Until I can’t fight it anymore. Twisting the unlocked knob, I enter the room. Partial relief washes over as I scan the empty suite.
But then I see it, Damon’s plan, and my throat dries. There’s an engagement ring on the bed.
Again? He asked her again?! I didn’t even get a chance to—
My gaze shifts to a painting of a forest resting beside the ring, and I swallow hard, attempting to piece together what the hell happened here in the last two hours.
My unease deepens as I pick up the ring. A black diamond. How very Damon. She deserves something bright. My pocket burns but I push the anger away.
Focus, Quinton. Focus.
They’re not here. Either of them. Maybe he didn’t ask. Maybe he didn’t get the opportunity. Maybe his plan went awry. But… But where are they?
In a hurry, I leave the room, my footsteps urgent as I search the villa for any sign of Emery and Damon. My heart pounds in my chest, a heavy ache settling in my gut.
As I approach the study, I notice the door is ajar. What the hell is going on? I push the door open gently, only to find Damon inside, precariously balancing a whiskey glass in one hand, his face etched with despair.
"Cavanaugh.” I storm into the study, hands balled up into fists. "What's going on? Where’s Emery?"
He looks up at me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "Well, look who’s finally decided to join the party," he says, his speech slurred. "Have a drink, Quinton, huh?” He motions to the bottle of Glenlivet on the side table next to him. “Celebrate your victory."
“What are you talking about?” I glance across the room, my worry deepening. "Where's Emery, Damon? What happened?"
He tries to take a sip of his whiskey but spills half of it on the floor. Christ, how much has he had to drink?
"Don’t pretend, Quinton. We both know she ran back to you. She’s always running, that girl." He snorts, lids droopy. “We had that in common. Run, run, run. Always running.”
"What happened, Damon?" I demand, my patience wearing thin. “What did you do? Where is she?”
Damon's face contorts with anguish. "I did everything I could, Quinton. I said it all and," he hitches a weak shoulder, “it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. So go.” He flicks his arm in the direction of the door. “Go celebrate your win…because me? I don’t win. I lose, Quinton. I always lose.”
Gritting my teeth, I sink down to his level and grab his chin, forcing him to look me in the eyes. His breath reeks, and a part of me hates seeing him so fucking weak. I thought he broke this cycle. I thought he was stronger than this.
“Where’s Emery?” I ask, tone level. “Where is she, Damon?” His head sways, and I steady it with both hands. “Damon, I need you to focus, alright? When did you last see her?”
He shrugs. “Long time ago.”
Grunting, I abruptly stand up. “Damn it, Cavanaugh.” With a forceful tug, I pull the man to his feet. “Let’s go. We need to find her.”
“Maybe she doesn’t wanna be found, Quinton.” He attempts to release my unyielding grip but fails. “Let go of me, you fucker.”
I ignore him, lugging him out of the study.
Damon's arm drapes over my shoulder, his unsteady steps echoing through the villa as we ascend the grand staircase. I tighten my grip around Damon. He can hardly walk. Hardly fucking talk. This is mad. It’s been years since I’ve seen him like this.
Guilt grips at me, and I can’t seem to shake it off.
When we finally reach the landing, I expel a heavy sigh and guide Damon to Emery's room. The door swings open, and I blink. The room is a mess, drawers yanked open, clothes scattered across the floor. As if someone was in a frantic rush to leave.
A knowing shiver zaps down my spine. She did say she wanted to leave. But this abruptly? With no goodbye? No final words? Nothing?
Something is very wrong. Very fucking wrong.
“This isn’t right,” I murmur. “She wouldn’t just leave. She wouldn’t…”
Damon tumbles forward and suggests, "If you’re so worried, Quinton, then just call her. She’ll tell you she’s just fine. That she’s left me and you and she’s totally fine.”
I glare at him, but my worry overpowers the frustration I feel toward him. "She doesn't have her phone with her, Damon. She left it in New York because she was worried you might track her."
Damon winces and mumbles out an half-assed apology, his words almost incoherent. Thankfully, I speak fluent Drunk Damon.
“The valet,” I say, nodding with unwarranted hope. “Let’s check if the valet saw her leave. She would’ve taken a car to the airport.”
“You’re wasting your time, Q,” Damon slurs, swaying. “You might as well be chasing the wind, you know?”
“Helpful, Cavanaugh. Very helpful.” I pinch the bridge of my nose before forcing Damon to stand upright. “Let’s go.”
With a grunt, I loop my arm around his waist and drag him to the resort’s valet area.
“Enough! Let go of me!” Damon detangles himself from my hold as we reach the valet. “I’m fine! Jesus!”
My jaw ticks at Damon’s childish behavior as I approach the attendant and address him in French. "Excuse me, did you happen to see a woman leaving the resort earlier tonight? She’s a brunette with green eyes. Around five foot eight. She was wearing a white dress."
The attendant takes a moment to think, his brow furrowing.
Then he nods slowly and says, “Yeah, I saw a brunette woman leaving earlier tonight. Not sure her about height and she wasn’t wearing a white dress, but she had a big suitcase with her.
Left in an SUV. Maybe two hours ago? Looked like she was heading to the airport, I think? ”
The relief I feel is only momentary. What car did she take? How did she get the keys? Did Sophie help her? My brain pulses with questions.
“She really left?” Damon asks, shoulders slumped and weak. “Oh…”
She can’t leave. Not like this. Not when I have so much left to say to her. Why didn’t she wait? She went alone? In the middle of the night? Without saying goodbye? Without an explanation?
It doesn’t add up. This isn’t like Emery. She wouldn’t do this.
I thank the valet attendant, and drag Damon back into the villa.
“We need to check flights,” I say. “We could still catch her.”
“And then what?” Damon slurs as we reach my suite. “Force her to stay? Force her to listen to us? That doesn’t work, Quinton. You know it doesn’t.” He swallows. “You said so yourself, she doesn’t belong in a cage. If she wants to fly, we should let her. Let her be free.”
I shake my head, my temples pulsing. "I don’t know what happened, Cavanaugh, but we need to find her. I’m telling you, something is wrong. Can’t you feel it?”
Damon sinks down on the edge of my bed, his face buried in his hands. “I don’t feel anything other than pain, Q. Everything hurts. That’s all I feel.”
Letting out a labored breath, I pull my phone out of my breast pocket and search for flights departing from Geneva. It would take her two hours to drive there. If we left on the jet now, we could arrive at the same time in New York.
“There’s a flight departing in an hour to JFK,” I say. “She might be on it. We should leave now. If we leave now, we can catch her.”
Damon scoffs. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite, Quinton.
You’re gonna chase her? You’re going to chase her like I did?
” My teeth clench at the comparison, but he’s not wrong.
“I chased her, Quinton. I found her here, didn’t I?
And what happened? She ran all over again.
” Another scoff. “She says she loves us. She loves us? But then she runs? Runs away? It’s all lies, Quinton. It’s all—”
My shoulders tense. “She said she loves us?” The air in the room vanishes. “She said that?”
Damon nods. “Yup. Fucked, huh?”
Damn it, Emery. Why didn’t you just stay? We could have found a solution. We could have worked it out.
“It’s complicated,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “It’s—”
“What does that even mean?!” Damon growls, slamming his hand on the mattress.
“Complicated? She kept saying that. It’s complicated, complicated, complicated.
I know I fucked up! I know I should’ve told her about the accident, but I’m human too!
I made a mistake.” His voice peters out into a low whimper, eyes closing. “I made a mistake.”
I look at his disheveled appearance, the torment so deeply rooted in his eyes.
A pang of guilt courses through me. He doesn't know the full truth.
That he took a life, that his mistake on that fateful night is the reason Emery is still alive today.
He doesn't know, and I can't tell him. Just as Emery can't. If he knew he killed someone, let alone Alison, it would eat him alive… one organ at a time.
My gut twists.
It was an accident. It took me years to accept that.
To forgive him. He would never have hurt Alison on purpose.
He values his soul, but his demons won that night.
They win often. But if he knew the truth, it would shatter him, and I can't bear to be the one to inflict that kind of pain on someone, even after all we've been through.
"Damon," I take a short, labored breath. "Some things that are better left in the dark. You don't need to know everything."
His bloodshot eyes search mine for answers, for the truth. "What does that even mean?! What the hell are you talking about?"
I swallow. "This hurts me to say, Damon, but I truly believe that Emery loves you. And we need to go find her." I make a decision, perhaps foolish and lacking logic, but it’s all I can do. I type out a text. "The chopper’s ready when we are, Damon. We need to leave.”
Damon looks at me, frowning. "Together? We’re going to find her…together?”
I meet his wary gaze. “I can go alone if you want. But I think you should fight, too, Damon. And trust me, I’m not saying that for my benefit. I’m saying it for hers.”
He remains silent for several beats, staring off into the distance, and then he stands up, expression tight as he mutters, “Let’s go.”
As we walk to the helipad, my mind spins. We need to come up with a plan. What do we say? What do we propose? I glance at Damon, his expression unreadable. I need him to be sober. I need his help. I hate it but I do.
When we reach the helicopter, my pocket vibrates. I frown and pull out my satellite phone. The message on the screen is from an unknown number. The same number that had texted me when we were on the jet on the way to Geneva.
My frown deepens.
Damon’s standing right beside me, his hands nowhere near a cell phone.
It wasn’t him. It wasn’t—
I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest as I read the text, and click on the image attached to the message.
“Damon.” Terror blurs my vision as I turn the phone in his direction. “She didn’t leave.”
Damon’s face pales as he reads the text.
Missing something, Dr. Marquis? If you call the authorities or alert anyone, your precious Emery will end up in a river just like Vincent. My instructions will follow. Until then, sit in your fear. Like I did.
And then he sees the photo of Emery.
Bleeding. Bruised. Tied up. Gagged.
All the alcohol in his bloodstream seems to metabolize in seconds.
With both hands curled around my collar, Damon growls, spit flying into my face. “What the fuck did you do?!”