Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Harry
Victor Cortez, a pathetic excuse of a man with a questionable browsing history, is getting on my last fucking nerve.
His eyes start to close, the heaviness of them pulling him into sleep. With the impatient shake of my head, I drop my hand to the armrest of his chair, allowing it to take my weight as I slap my palm across his cheek. He rears back, pulling himself from the brink of unconsciousness.
“You’re boring me now, Victor.” I lean in closer, my face only inches from the gaping wound on his temple. I hit him harder, stopping his eyes from rolling into the back of his head. “Eyes here.”
He lets out a cry – a pathetic, wimpy one – that would make me snicker in a less serious scenario. But we’re talking about the safety of women. Women I’m working myself to the bone to find. It’s been weeks since I’ve found a crumb of useful information that could potentially lead somewhere.
“Where. Are. They?”
“I don’t know!” he cries.
I tsk at his pathetic answer and pull back, turning to the white plastic table pushed against the dated floral wallpaper. “I saw Liam Neeson do this once.” I take the steel rods, spinning them between my fingers as I turn back round. “I’ve always wanted to try it out.”
Victor shakes his head madly on my approach, but I’ve already swung both arms down and impaled his thighs with the metal. Despite the blunt edges, my desperation to hurt him makes the attack seamless.
I twist the steel into his knees, feeling the resistance of his kneecaps. The ease to simply pop them off is tempting given my short temper. His skull collides with the chair, his head whipping back on a scream.
I fist his hair, forcing his head down. “WHERE IS SHE?”
Blood spurts from his mouth with his next cry, pouring down his chin. His head rolls forwards, and I would truly think I’ve lost him, if not for his quiet mumble.
“She?”
My brows draw together, and I take a step back. “She?”
“You … y-you said ‘she’.”
“Nope. Definitely don’t recall saying that.”
“Y-you did.”
I charge forwards again with a speed that surprises Victor and me, pushing into his personal space. “They. Where are they, Victor?”
A cry tumbles out of him as he forces his face away, his entire body trembling as he denies withholding any information.
Truth be told, I believe him. All I’m going off is the browsing history of a businessman who simply “looked funny”, having snatched him on his way out of his office in Canary Wharf.
I’m clutching at straws, but whether I believe him or not isn’t the point here.
I take the electrical cables from the table and clip them to the steel rods, if only to give myself a burst of emotion after months of feeling nothing.
“NO!” he bellows.
“I haven’t even switched the cables on yet, Victor. No need for all the screaming.”
As if he purposely wants to piss me off, he lets out a bloodcurdling cry that forces his whole body to lose colour dramatically. He thrashes against the restraint on his wrists, working himself into such a frenzy that even from a few steps away I can see his heart slamming against his chest.
“Christ,” I curse. “That’s pretty fucked-up.”
The organ thumps faster and harder, the skin round his pounding heart tightening with each of his thrashes.
Fucking hell. Victor is going to bring on a heart attack.
The psychopath in me screams, Do it!
Instead I keep my mouth closed, silently watching the show.
But the performance doesn’t last long. His entire body convulses, eyes straining in their sockets, then – nothing. The organ stops completely, and he becomes limp against the chair, his chin dropping against his chest.
Well, fuck.
Right before we got to the fun part.
I debate whether to turn on the cables just for that extra excitement, but that would forfeit every precaution I’ve put in place to slip under the radar.
Something as simple as hiking up an electricity bill could draw attention to my shitty apartment: a stale, tiny old thing above an off-licence in the depths of Surrey.
The interior is alight with gas lanterns, only switched on when necessary, and when anything other than that is required, I rely on the generator. Never worth risking more than ten minutes at a time. All necessary measures to stay hidden from Richard’s prying eyes.
I leave Victor’s deceased body on the chair and walk the short distance to the living room. As I fall back exhausted on the sofa, a puff of dust spins through the air, noticeable in the streak of sunlight peeking through the curtains. An old musty smell follows.
And, as always, my eyes zero in on nothing, and my thoughts drift to Gigi.
Did I really scream for her whereabouts?
I bang my fist against my temple, trying to divert my attention to anything but her. Yet like every attempt I’ve made in recent months to think about anything else, it’s fruitless.
It’s been exactly 125 days since she disappeared.
Close to eighteen weeks of hunting ruthlessly for her.
And over thirty thousand hours of enduring the damage to my sanity.
Did she not realise the pain of her leaving without a trace wouldn’t be good for my head, even if she felt it was good for her heart?
The devil on my shoulder awakens with the brutal fear that perhaps I do know where Gigi is – more importantly, who she’s with. But I fight the terrifying reality, refusing to torture myself further despite four months of no contact. I’m simply left with the memory of her in a dark motel room.
I refuse to settle until she’s safe with me … yet at what point will I learn to willingly accept the reality she’s probably with him?
Never. Simple fucking answer.
A knock on the front door pulls my mind from spiralling. I catch the pattern of the knock and listen out for it a second time to ensure I heard it correctly. I pull myself off the sofa and check through the peephole.
I open the door to Poppy. She’s wrapped in a long beige coat, her red hair tied back, makeup slightly heavier on her face. She drops her umbrella by the door and shrugs off her coat, hanging it up. She lifts her head as I close the door.
“Blimey, you look like shit.”
I gesture to the other side of the room, securing the lock. “Victor is in the back room.”
“Did you manage to find anything?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
She shrugs. “We always assumed that anyway.”
I take a beer from the fridge and return to my space on the sofa, lounging into the cheap material and resting my arm over the cushions. “What are you doing here anyway?”
She rakes her gaze over the apartment. “Just making sure you’re behaving yourself.”
“Behaving myself? Why wouldn’t I be behaving my—?” I halt the bottle an inch from my mouth, looking her over. She’s dressed far too nicely. Heels. Lipstick. Dress shimmering with sequins. “Where are you going?”
She drops her bag on the table, carefully avoiding my gaze. “Just a thing.”
“A thing?” I focus on her outfit once again. “No, no, no. We’re not doing that.”
Her head snaps back to me fast as I bring myself to my feet, placing the beer on the floor.
“It’s just a dinner. With friends.”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t have friends.”
“Well, that’s harsh.”
“Poppy,” I say sternly.
There’s something brittle in her voice. “I told you. Dinner.”
“Is it her?” Desperation clinging to every word, I press, “Is it about Gigi? Did you hear something?”
She looks me over, no doubt seeing the glimmer of hope I’m clutching onto.
I’ve asked her constantly, close to every minute Gigi’s been gone, whether she knows anything.
But it’s always the same. “Nothing,” she tells me again and again.
Though now, with her skittish behaviour and the way sympathy flickers in her eyes, I figure it’s just a tactic for me to turn elsewhere.
“Poppy?” I repeat.
She sighs heavily. “It’s been months, Harry. Maybe it’s time—”
“Don’t you dare.” I struggle to rein in my temper. “Don’t say it’s time to let her go. You know something.”
“I don’t,” she says too quickly.
“Fucking tell me.” I slam my hand down on the coffee table, the ashtray rattling against the rotted wood. She doesn’t flinch and instead folds her arms over her chest.
“Wherever you’re going, she’s going to be there, isn’t she?” I ask slowly, emphasising every word. “That’s why you want to know if I’m behaving myself.”
Her features are set stern, but she says nothing.
That’s answer enough.
“I’m going,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “They won’t let you in.”
“It wasn’t a question,” I clarify, common sense eradicated by hope. “I’ll find a way.”
“You won’t like what it’s for—”
“Don’t care.”
There’s a glimpse of something sad in her features. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”