Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
BLAKE
For the last three hours, I’ve searched high and low for a guy named Daryl, and can I find him? Nope. I’m now feeling like Theo sent me on a wild goose chase, and there is no Daryl.
Pushing the hair off my face, I enter the office kitchen, desperate to sit down for two minutes and rest my feet.
Aimee stands with Theo, laughing at something he just said.
She places a hand on his arm, and white-hot jealousy fills me.
It shouldn’t, not after all these years.
Theo was never really mine, and he never will be again.
He was just there for me during a really weird time in my life, and he ended up being a crutch.
That’s all he ever was… I just have to keep reminding myself of that.
I shove my way through the door, and Aimee looks up. “Hey, how’s your first day going?”
“Oh, fantastic,” I sarcastically reply. “I’ve been sent on a mission to find some guy named Daryl. Ever heard of him?”
She looks confused while Theo sniggers into his mug. My head whips around to look at him. The black shirt and slacks fit him entirely too well. I remember him always being big, but I swear he’s gotten larger since I last saw him. And unfortunately, it’s for the better.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I say to Aimee. “Theo must have gotten the name wrong.” I turn my gaze to him, quirking a brow. “Right?”
Theo lowers his cup. “Nope, his name is Daryl. He works on the corner. Does the nicest bagels. The Hudson Lee sandwich is one of the best on his menu.”
“Theo,” Aimee admonishes, slapping his chest. “Stop it.”
He lets out a booming laugh and rubs his chest. “What? It was funny.”
I roll my eyes and walk over to the coffee machine, having had enough of his bullshit already. Opening the cupboard harder than necessary, I grab a cup and pour myself a coffee, when Theo hands me the sugar.
“Thank you,” I grumble and add a teaspoon's worth.
“Oh, Blake, there’s a client who’s specifically asked for you,” Aimee says. “I’ve left her contact details on your desk in the library. I didn’t want to straight up say no, so I thought I’d leave it to you.”
“Did she say what her name was?” I ask as I pour creamer into my cup.
“No, but she did say you’ve worked with her in the past.” Aimee shrugs.
“I’ll call her later, thank you.”
Theo clears his throat, and I glance at him, an eyebrow raised at the intrusion. “What?”
“All cases are to be run by me first. You’re also not supposed to be on any other cases other than the one Frank assigned us.” He lounges there, all suave and sophisticated, and it just makes me want to scream from the unfairness of it all. Why him? Why me?
“I didn’t say I was going to take on a new case, I said I was going to call her.” I roll my eyes again at his blatant display of a power trip.
“Don’t care.”
“Whatever,” I mumble. The pair of us are acting like pre-pubescent teenagers who have a crush on each other, and I feel like I’m in high school all over again.
Aimee pushes away from the counter and walks to the door. “Right, I’m leaving. All the sexual tension in here is becoming too much for me.”
I desperately want to follow after Aimee, to leave this kitchen and Theo behind. To not be left alone with him. But I’ll be damned if I go first. He’ll see it as if he’s won this battle, and over my dead body will I allow that to happen.
Being around him doesn’t bring me the excitement it used to. My body used to light up the minute he stepped into the room, and my heart would feel like it was going to burst out of my chest. But he broke that heart the day he left without a word, so he doesn’t get to act like this.
I take a sip of my coffee and immediately spit it back out. “Ew, what the fuck?” I glare at him, but he stands there wearing his usual cocky smirk.
“Something wrong, firefly?”
“Was that salt instead of sugar?” I growl, walking to the sink and pouring the offending fluid away.
“Would I do something like that?” he asks innocently.
I’m not a violent person, but the urge to slap the smug look off his face is extremely high.
“Yes, you would because you’re an insane asshole,” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air.
“I prefer the term ‘creative,’” he says with a shrug, his entire attitude blasé and disinterested.
“Creative in the head,” I retort, a hand on my hip. “You’re the most irritating person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”
His eyebrow raises with his mug halfway to his mouth. “I could say the same about you.” He drains the last of his drink and places it in the sink before turning back to me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have real work to be getting on with.”
I stomp my foot like a toddler as he walks out, growling in frustration. This is not my finest hour, but fuck me, he’s pushing my buttons. I need a minute to decompress and figure out how the fuck I’m going to spend the next however long working with him without killing him slowly.
I spend the rest of the day reviewing news articles and reports about Harper. The only information I had to go on was what Frank told us in his office.
A door opening pulls me out of my thoughts, and I look up to see Aimee. “You know it's home time, right?” she asks, gesturing to the open books in front of me.
“I know,” I say as I rake a hand through my hair. It fell out of its ponytail earlier, and I couldn’t be bothered to put it back up. “I’m missing something here. I can see it, but at the same time, I can’t.”
Aimee gives me a look of understanding. “Keep going, you’ll get there, but maybe go home and sleep first? Might help you to see the bigger picture with fresh eyes,” she says kindly.
“Yeah, probably.”
I tidy up, putting the books away and closing down my laptop while Aimee waits for me.
“Wanna grab a drink? Danny’s bar is just down the road. Does two-for-one cocktails on a Monday.” She winks.
I smile. “Thanks, but I need to get back.”
Leaving the building behind, I take the subway home. The night sky stares at me as the lights from buildings and cars whizz past. Pulling my coat tighter around my ears, I walk the few remaining blocks home.
I was lucky to find an apartment nearby. It’s not perfect, but it fits my needs. The two-bedroom unit is filled with items I found from the local charity store.
The plant I so desperately wanted to have but knew I wouldn’t keep alive wilts on the windowsill as I open the door quietly. Mrs. Mitchell sits knitting on the threadbare sofa, the green cushions stuffed around her.
“Sorry I’m so late,” I apologize, wincing. “I lost track of time.”
Mrs. Mitchell gives me a warm smile. “It’s not a problem, dear. Everything has been absolutely fine.”
She places her knitting into her bag and stands up. For a sixty-year-old woman, she’s looking amazing. Most of her hair remains a dark brown color, and her slim figure is encased in jeans and a sweater.
Walking her out to the door, I apologize again. “I really am sorry.”
“Blake, please stop apologizing. You’re doing the best you can. I’m retired and have nothing better to do with my time, so I’m happy to help in any way that I can.” She gives my arm a gentle squeeze before heading to her own apartment beside mine.
Closing the door, I lean against it and blow out a puff of air. I’m exhausted, physically and mentally, and it’s only going to get harder.
Taking off the torture devices masquerading as heels, I head straight for the fridge and fill one of those absurdly oversized wine glasses—the kind that holds an entire bottle. Grabbing the glass, I head for my bathroom; I’m in serious need of soaking my aching feet.
I stop on the way, poking my head around a door to see a mound of covers hiding the body underneath.
I creep in quietly, the sliver of moonlight casting enough light for me to see my child’s sleeping face peeking through.
I smile softly, then kiss the tips of my fingers and place them on his forehead.
He stirs, but not enough to fully wake up.
I walk out, close the door gently, and take the last remaining steps to the bathroom.
Turning on the light, I place the glass of wine on the counter, then set the water to full blast and add my favorite bath scents.
The smell of jasmine fills the air around me as the tub fills.
Undressing, I try not to think of the shit show of today.
Of the case I’m stuck working on with a man I dislike more than anything.
But… do I really dislike him that much, or is it because he left me without a word and my hurt feelings are showing?
I climb into the tub, reach across my small bathroom to grab my glass, and take a healthy swig before settling myself back. The hot water, almost too hot, helps soothe my muscles, allowing the tension to fizzle out and my poor feet to stop stinging from the blisters that have formed on the heels.
The alcohol settles into my bloodstream, giving me an almost floaty feeling, which unlocks my mind enough to start flying through what I learned of Harper.
It’s going to be tough, of that I have no doubt, but I know I won’t rest until I find out exactly what happened to her.
I’ve always been this way; it was one of my oldest memories of my dad before he died.
Well, before both my parents died in a car accident when I was sixteen.
We would sit and watch true crime documentaries every night before I went to bed.
It was our bonding session, how we decompressed from the day—me, a sixteen-year-old with the dramas of high school boys, and my dad, a Professor of Science at the local college.
After they passed away, I moved in with my aunt and her creepy boyfriend until I turned eighteen and went to college.
The boyfriend never did anything, but he did leer at me every so often.
I quickly learned to make sure I was covered from head to toe at all times, and I only left my room when I knew he was passed out drunk or at work.
It was an uncomfortable environment to live in, but I managed to get through it.
I studied hard, and it paid off. I always knew I wanted to make my mom and dad proud and to never end up like my aunt—a woman so oblivious to the world around her she only cared about the next state payment that she could blow on drugs and booze.
How I ended up with her remains a mystery I have yet to uncover.
I didn’t know the full ins and outs of their death until I got older, but things still didn’t add up.
The police reports I’d asked for didn’t match what I remembered from that night, so I became my own little detective.
They dropped the ball on so many things that the guy they had in custody ended up walking free.
That’s when I knew I never wanted to be a police officer, and that I’d rather operate behind the scenes and see justice fully served by becoming an attorney at law.
Shaking off my walk down memory lane, I get out of the tub, grab the nearest towel, and dry off.
In my dimly lit bedroom, I change into my black vest top and matching shorts.
Then, with my glass of wine finished and placed in the sink, I settle on the sofa, curl my legs under me, and pull my laptop out.
I know the answer is here; I can feel it. I just have to find it.