Chapter 11
RIVER
“They’re malnourished,but otherwise alright physically,” Landon informs me. “No one has…died yet, as far as we know. But the longer they’re kept and with the blood loss…”
My hands start to shake, and I shove them under the table. After seeing me, Landon insisted we go and eat something before he heads off to work with Ben.
I’ve dealt with this shit before. I’ve seen the results of trafficking.
But this is different.
It’s Skylar.
It’s Skylar in captivity, likely being used for her blood.
We still don’t have a DNA match for her, but we have one for April. Hopefully, that will lead us somewhere.
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” Landon asks carefully, watching me as I bring a trembling hand from under the table to grab the coffee cup.
“The fuck does it matter to you?” I spit at him before taking a sip. The patrons in line at the coffee shop glance at me, but I simply scowl at them until they turn their gazes elsewhere.
“Because you look like you’re killing yourself. And the attacks are happening again, aren’t they?”
I narrow my eyes. He has that look on his face, the one where he’s seeing through someone’s bullshit.
I take another sip of my coffee.
I’m not answering his stupid fucking question.
He already knows the attacks are back. They’ve made their way into my system, panic and fear affecting my movements.
But we don’t talk about that.
“You want to help her? You need to stop sabotaging your health,” Landon says, talking to me as if I’m a child.
I put the cup down as it sloshes coffee over the rim, as if proving his point.
Fuck, I’m craving a cigarette.
But somehow, it feels as if I do that, I’m failing her even more.
So I grit my teeth and shoot daggers at the asshole in front of me. “Lecture over yet?” I snap. “Why did you even bring me here? What’s your grand plan for today?”
Landon glances at the bagel next to my cup, then back at me. I roll my eyes and take a bite.
“I was going to ask if you wanted to question the dealer with me,” he says. “The one that sold April’s O.”
I snarl, and the people in line turn to look at me again. “What?” I growl at them.
Landon sighs loudly and drags a hand through his hair. “But,” he adds. “Vincent?—”
“Fuck him,” I hiss.
“Like I was saying, Vincent found something interesting. A possible suspect.”
I take another bite of my bagel. “Yeah?” I ask. “Explain.”
“There’s someone suspicious on the video footage from the café the day April disappeared. Vincent looked him up and found two separate properties. One here, one in Slatten. The Slatten one is a plot of land with a mobile home on it.”
That piques my interest. “He’s going to question the owner?”
Hundreds of people have been interviewed in the last month, but it’s not enough.
It will never be enough until we find Skylar.
“If he’s there,” Landon continues, “I was thinking you should go with Vincent. Just in case things turn…weird.”
Slatten isn’t in the best area. It’s most famous for churning out meth labs and high school dropouts.
No one goes there unless necessary. The population is less than a thousand, and people audibly groan when the town is mentioned.
There’s no reason to own any land out there.
“In case things turn weird,” I repeat. “Why can’t you go, and I’ll question the dealer?”
Landon rolls his eyes. “Because Ben and the officers want me. They don’t trust you won’t go off the rails.”
I look down at the table. I’m sure I scared the shit out of Ben the other week, and I’m still sporting some yellow bruising on my face.
“Honestly, you look awful,” Landon adds. “I’m sure you’ll blend in at Slatten.”
I scoff. “Fuck off,” I mutter, but without any real malice behind it. “I hate that asshole.”
“You’ve made that perfectly clear,” he replies. “But Vincent’s in this with us. He’s not leaving. And frankly, the more competent people we have on these cases, the better.”
I scowl and clench my fist under the table, digging my nails into my palm. “How can you forgive him after everything?” I ask. “After what he did. After he left.”
Landon is quiet as he places his cup down on the table. He’s silent long enough that I look up at him, expecting some smug expression on his face and a lecture about people changing. “I don’t,” he admits. “And I’m not sure I ever will. But I don’t let it consume me. I don’t let it decide my actions or dictate the way I interact with him.”
I scoff. “Yeah. Well, you and I are pretty different. I don’t walk around with a stick up my ass all the time.”
“At least I don’t let my negative emotions control everything I do.”
I chuckle humorlessly. “Sure,” I say, hating how accurate he is.
“You and I have the same goal,” Landon continues. “We want Skylar safe and back at home. We want her with us, in whatever strange duo pack we have. Since we made a sort of truce.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know.”
“Then I’m asking you, as part of this truce, to work with Vincent. He has a hunch, and every one he’s had before has proved correct.”
Landon’s right. As much as I can’t stand him, Vincent was the best investigator I ever worked with. His gut instincts were on point. He closed almost every case he was assigned.
And if he’s right about this…
“Alright, give me the addresses,” I mutter, before shoving half the bagel in my mouth.
I’m so fucking stupid.
As I pull up to the Isleton address, I see Vincent leaning against his car parked on the street, his hands in his pockets, looking as sure as always, like the old days.
It hits me.
He wants Skylar.
Of course he fucking wants her, even after he was an asshole to her.
That’s why he’s doing this.
He didn’t have a change of heart about working.
He wants Skylar, just like I want her. Just like Landon wants her.
I debate turning around and ramming my car into him, but logic wins. It’s not my place to decide if, after all of this, Skylar wants him.
I’ll grit my teeth and bear it.
I stop spiraling long enough to step out of my car. Vincent makes his way toward me and gives a subtle nod. He’s clean shaven and dressed in a grey college hoodie I haven’t seen him wear in years.
“John Briggs,” he says, before I can ask the question. “Thirty-six years old. No arrest record. Unemployed but used to work at the Isleton County Hospital.”
Yup. Just like old times. We head toward the house without a word until we reach the front of the driveway.
John’s house is…unkempt, to say the least.
“It looks like a fucking bomb went off here,” I murmur. Broken table legs and two white plastic chairs lie haphazardly on the overgrown front lawn. An unwashed, dusty brown SUV sits in the driveway with a flat tire.
The window next to the front door is covered with aluminum foil.
It’s not that I haven’t seen shitty houses before—but compared to the others in the neighborhood, this looks abandoned.
Vincent simply nods at my observation, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
He’s in the zone. Quiet, contemplative, and calculating.
Just like he used to be.
He’s always been the leader of our investigations. Even in the last devastating case we all worked on together, he led the charge.
Which ultimately ruined him.
I stop that train of thought as we head up the porch steps. The wood creaks as we walk on it, and I feel it slightly give way.
“This thing is about to collapse,” I mutter. “What the fuck?”
At one time, this would have been a nice house. It’s like someone just gave up on it.
And the smell. Even through the door, something musty and thick pours its way to the porch.
Vincent looks down at the wood, grunts, then knocks on the door.
No response. I sigh.
Vincent knocks louder, the door frame rattling obnoxiously. He tries the door handle, jiggling it.
That’s dangerous territory. We can’t just walk in. If the door was unlocked, maybe, but it would be a nightmare of paperwork if someone complained.
“They’re obviously not home,” I say as he stares at the door. “Maybe Ben could get a warrant expedited. Or, shit, let’s go to Slatten?—”
SLAM!
It takes me a moment to realize Vincent just kicked the goddamn door open. He doesn’t even hesitate. He charges inside and I follow after him, shocked.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss. “There are neighbors, you fucking idiot! What if they saw—oh shit?—”
The smell that was wafting onto the porch is a hundred times stronger in the front room. It’s a combination of sour food and rot.
I swallow down a gag while Vincent explores the house, ignoring my protests.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, shutting the door the best I can. I decide to take a look around myself.
The front room is destroyed. A couch is flipped, and a bunch of moving boxes are open and spilled to the side with random contents. A package of pens, a bottle of bathroom cleaner, and more miscellaneous items litter the tiled floor. Empty pizza boxes are scattered around.
The tiles are chipped and cracked and some are stained with feces.
“What the fuck,” I mutter.
The kitchen is no better. The scent of rotten food wafts from the overfilled sink. Dirty pots and pans line the counter, along with a bag of potatoes with white, moving specks.
Maggots.
This is bad.
This is very, very bad.
“River,” Vincent calls.
“Yeah?” I reply, my stomach queasy as I watch the bugs swarm on the blackened potatoes.
“I’ve got something.”
I head toward the back of the house, passing a bathroom with a clogged sink and overfilled toilet.
My stomach fills with dread at Vincent’s stoic tone. When he says he’s “got something,” it can mean anything from a small bloodstain to a fucking dead body.
But when I see him in one of the bedrooms, his back towards me, I catch a whiff of something new.
Omega.
It’s faded, but it’s there.
And it’s sweet but slightly soured—an Omega in distress.
But, there’s no Alpha scent to accompany it.
In fact, no part of the house has any scent of Alpha—just the stench of filth.
John Briggs is a Beta.
As I step into the bedroom, I see the stained mattress and dusty blankets, and my hands clench into fists.
But Vincent’s attention isn’t on the bed. It’s turned to the nightstand next to it.
An almost empty baggie of O is the only thing sitting on it.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“You smell the Omega too?”
I scowl. “Of course I do.”
“Find the source, then.”
I want to argue with him that he’s not my fucking boss and he doesn’t tell me what to do, but we’re on borrowed time.
I’m at the dresser in a second and pulling open the drawers. Some are off their track and sideways, so I just yank them out and let them fall to the floor.
If Briggs only had her in his room for a few hours, it’s likely the scent would have fully dissipated by now.
Something is here that belongs to an Omega.
I dig through the clothes, tossing items aside. When I reach the final drawer, underneath a pile of socks, the scent is sweeter and overwhelming.
I pull out the piece of fabric.
“Oh, fuck,” I mutter.
I hold the black apron in my hands, the concentrated scent of Omega wafting from it.
April’s Café is embroidered in pink on the front.
It’s not Skylar’s scent, but it is an Omega’s.
Possibly April’s.
Vincent looks over as I hold up the apron. A low growl sounds in his throat.
His instincts are never wrong.
“That’s enough for a warrant,” he confirms. “Enough for the Slatten property.”
“Fuck a warrant,” I hiss, balling the apron in my arms. “I’m going right fucking now. I could give two shits about a warrant.”
I expect him to argue, to say that there could be a reasonable explanation for why this man happens to have a fucking apron from a café he doesn’t work at, but he simply nods, his eyes narrowing.
“Call Ben,” he orders. “I’ll drive.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
There’s only two Omegas from the café that have gone missing.
And if John Briggs is at that Slatten property…
He’s going to have a lot of fucking explaining to do.
If he can even talk after my fist goes through his teeth.