Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rygaard
One Year Later
It’s been two weeks, and I’m no closer to finding Presley than I was when I thought Agatha was finally going to tell me.
Sitting in my office on the fifth floor of Markus Architecture, I think about calling Mindy for an emergency coffee meeting.Without hesitation, I pick up my phone and dial.It rings several times before going to voicemail.
I quickly leave a message, asking her to return my call at her earliest convenience.
I can't even think straight. Agatha’s words keep replaying in my head: ‘She’s in a dark place, and I don’t know how to get her back.’ Presley, always so full of life, that fiery attitude, that infectious smile, and now... this.
I glance at the clock. I wish I could leave early, but I have a potential client coming in later to go over blueprints for a new store he just purchased land for.
Chuck Wagsport. Thirty-four. Single. Worth a pretty penny. Not the worst way to spend an afternoon.
The meeting isn't for another couple of hours, though, more than enough time to head into town and start asking questions.
I consider going straight to her parents' house... but I'd risk my own parents seeing me. Is that really such a bad thing anymore? Sylvia and Phillip are long gone, out traveling the world. Decision made, I grab my things, hop into my truck, and head across town.
The house looks nothing like it did when we were kids. The lawn’s overgrown, a few windows are boarded up from the inside, shutters hang crookedly, paint peels from every surface.
The place looks... abandoned by hope.
Getting out, I walk up the cracked sidewalk and knock. No disguises today. No hiding. Let whoever answers be surprised.
Minutes pass. I’m about to turn back when the door creaks open, and out steps Rafe, looking rough.
“Rygaard?” he croaks.
“Hey, man,” I say, cautiously.
“The fuck are you doing here?” he snaps, stepping onto the porch. “What the fuck do you want?”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Whoa. What’s with all the hostility, bro?”
“Bro?” He barks a bitter laugh. “I’m not your bro. If I was, you would’ve told me what the fuck was going on.”
“What? Not you, too?”
“The fuck you mean, not me, too ? Who else you been lying to, Ry?”
“I’m trying to find Presley,” I say, frustration seeping through. “Agatha, ”
“Had every right not to tell you shit!” he roars, shoving me off the porch.
I stumble back, fists clenching. “Touch me again, and I’ll lay your ass out! What happened between Presley and me is between us. I just need to talk to her. Do you know where she is?”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t fucking tell you. Prick.” He grunts, disappearing back inside and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
Standing there, staring at the battered wood, I mutter, “What the fuck is wrong with these people?” Then louder, “Guess that friendship’s dead and buried.”
Years of friendship and brotherhood, gone, just like that.
Guess I really am on my own.
I make it back to the office with time to spare before my meeting. The conference room on the second floor is already set, Julie, my secretary, is just finishing the drinks and refreshments.
“Thanks, Jules. Sit in and take notes, yeah?”
“Of course, Mr. Garrison,” she chirps before leaving.
I pull out my chair, sit, and my phone rings. “Hello?” I answer.
“Hey, it’s Mindy. I got your message.”
Relief floods through me. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help. I need to find Presley. Nobody’s willing to help me. Not Agatha. Not Rafe. Nobody.” Silence hums over the line. Leaning back, I sigh. “Please... help me.”
“I’ll keep my ears open, Ry,” she says finally. “But she hasn’t been seen in a while. I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises.”
“Thank you. Seriously, thank you.” Hope stirs, faint, but it's there.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she says. “I’ll feel awful if I come back empty-handed.”
“You’re trying. That’s more than anyone else has.” Julie pops her head in, mouthing ‘your client is here .’ “I gotta go,” I tell Mindy. “Let’s meet at Nancy Drew’s next week?”
“Sounds good,” she says before hanging up.
I shove my phone away, stand, and straighten my jacket just as the conference room door opens.
“Thank you for coming in today, Chuck,” I say automatically, extending my hand, only to freeze when I see who it really is.
My father.
He grips my hand, but I jerk it away like I’ve been burned.
“Come on, son,” he drawls. “Is that any way to greet your old man?”
“All this time," I growl, "and that’s what you open with? Son ?”
“You’re lucky I don’t kill you for the stunt you and Sylvia pulled.”
“What we pulled?” I laugh coldly. “You ruined our fucking lives! What the fuck did you do with Chuck?"
“Oh, Chuck’s fine," he says, smirking. “I asked him to give me a few minutes alone with my boy.”
“I’m no boy of yours.”
“Careful,” he warns. “Don’t test me.”
“Or what? You’ll do nothing, because you can't .” I cross my arms. “Now, get the fuck out of my office before I forget I’m wearing a suit.”
He stares for a long moment, something almost... longing... flickering across his face. But then he smirks again. “Before I go,” he says casually, “I hear you’re looking for someone. Come by the house. Maybe I’ll tell you where she is.”
Tempting, but I don’t believe a damn word out of his mouth.
“I’ll find her myself,” I snarl. “Now get the fuck out.”
He finally turns and leaves.
“Jules!” I bark.
She scurries in. “Yes, sir?”
“If that man ever steps foot in this building again, call security. Then the cops.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Good. Now bring in the real Mr. Wagsport.”
Forty-five minutes later, I close another deal. At least something went right today.
It’s nearly six when I finally pack up to leave. "Good work, Jules. Save the notes and prep a contract."
"Will do! Have a good night!" she chirps.
"You, too." I head for my truck, exhaustion settling deep in my bones. Once inside, I just sit there, gripping the steering wheel, letting everything wash over me.
I’ve been back for some time now, hiding. Avoiding Rafe, knowing he'd gone back home.Nothing was ever the same after Sylvia.Rafe ended up covering for me, lying to Presley, over and over, until he couldn’t anymore.
No wonder he hates me now.
This is all my fault. And no amount of punishment will ever be enough.
I keep Presley's letters in my closet, years worth of pain gathering dust in a box.. Burning a hole through me every goddamn day. "Fuck!" I roar, slamming my fists into the steering wheel.
I don't know how to fix this.I don't even know where to start.
Ramming the key into the ignition, I peel out of the garage and into the night.
I drive mindlessly to my usual hole-in-the-wall Korean market and gas station, Every Tang Korean, tucked a few miles from my place.
Roman, behind the counter, gives me a nod, our silent bro-code greeting.
I grab my usual, sushi roll, noodles, American cheese, a Korean soda, and toss a hundred on the counter.No chit-chat. No lingering.
The bell chimes as someone else walks in.
I tense, heart pounding. Should’ve worn my ball cap.
Should’ve covered up. I grab the first candy bar I can and bolt for the register.
Transaction done, I speed walk to my truck like my ass is on fire.
Once inside, I slump against the seat, breathing hard.
"Calm the fuck down, Ry," I mutter.Probably just my nerves after seeing my old man.
Seatbelt clicked, truck rumbling to life, I’m about to pull out when something catches my eye.
A girl, exiting the store. She looks... wrong.
Thin. Pale. Clothes hanging off her in tatters. Eyes sunken, haunted. She keeps glancing over her shoulder, jittery, scared. My gut twists into knots. She turns, and everything inside me shatters.
Presley.
But not the Presley I remember.
A ghost. A shell. A broken thing that used to be the love of my life.
Tears sting my eyes. My sweet girl.
What have I done?