Chapter Two
“Stop that,” Clayton mutters, nudging my foot when the tremor in my leg starts shaking the coffee table.
I keep doing it anyway, faster this time, the movement so restless it rattles the empty whiskey glass beside the stack of police folders.
Flashing red and blue bleed through the curtains every few seconds, each flicker slicing through my patience.
The whole house smells like sweat and damp wool from the rain-soaked uniforms coming in and out, officers talking in hushed voices and tracking mud through my hallways like they own the place.
My house is used to unwanted visitors, but now that Harper’s laughter has bounced off these walls, I itch at the thought of it being tainted.
Of her memory being scrubbed away by pot-bellied assholes that don’t understand the use of a door mat.
“I said stop,” Clayton says again, sharper this time, but I ignore him. He’s pacing the living room like he’s the one losing his mind, muttering to himself about evidence and timing and how long it’s taking them to piece together what we already know.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the half-burned cigarette butted out on the wooden table.
Harper would hate the bitter taste on my tongue, the lingering smoke in the air, and that’s exactly why I did it.
Prior to being kidnapped, she did walk out on me.
She tore my heart from my chest, set it alight and left it burning on the porch steps.
Talk about the stench of ash. But then Clayton smashed my door in and knocked some sense into me.
“We should be out there looking instead of waiting for some incompetent fuck to tell us they lost the trail again,” I growl, anger rippling through my spine.
My fingers are still bloody, the scratches I’ve carved into my torso searing hot.
It’s nothing compared to what’s happening on the inside.
I’ve been trying to sit tight, to trust the process and follow orders.
I’ve tried to cooperate, because that’s what she would’ve made me do, but pretending is a luxury I can’t afford.
Missing her is like realizing one of your ribs isn’t there anymore.
There’s no warning, just the empty ache that ruins every breath you try to take.
“Seriously, how hard can it be to catch one carrot-topped coward who can’t keep his mouth shut? I have no doubt he’s blabbed to every gas attendant and motel clerk along the way.”
Clayton stops pacing and glares down at me. His hair’s a mess of being clawed at, his jaw shadowed and tight.
“Obviously, we didn’t know him as well as we thought,” he grunts.
I roll my eyes. There’s no ‘we’ in this, I wasn’t the bastard’s roommate.
A couple of uniformed officers are standing uselessly at my kitchen island, arguing over the next steps like that’ll bring her back any faster.
When they first arrived, they wanted to treat the place like an active crime scene.
Dust for prints, take photos, bag evidence.
It makes sense, being the last place Harper was before she walked out that damn door.
Kenneth could have been nearby, watching and waiting to get her alone.
Unfortunately, whatever they might’ve found in terms of footprints or hair was all destroyed when I lost it.
The shattered glass, overturned chairs, and blood on the wall where my fist met plaster, tainted anything that could have been helpful.
Now all they’ve got are scraps and my word which, judging by the looks they keep trading, isn’t worth much.
“I’m five seconds away from kicking these fuckfaces out and scouring this entire country on my bike.”
“You need to calm down,” Clayton hisses. I stand, the words cracking like a whip. Crossing the room, my chest bumps his, the dried blood cracking open again.
“Calm down?!” I narrow my gaze. “How about you man up? She’s out there, alone and scared, and you want me to sit here while they check traffic cameras?” I throw my thumb in the direction of the uniforms across the room. “You think I give a shit about protocol?”
Lifting a book from the coffee table, some novel Harper left behind that probably has a much better ending than our story does, I throw it at the nearest wall.
It crashes into a mess of paper and drops to the floor, catching everyone in the vicinity by surprise.
Clayton grabs my arm and drags me over to the window, keeping our words private.
“Rhys,” he sighs quietly, “they’re going to lock you up for your own safety. You know that, right?”
“Let them try,” I huff. “They’ll have to break both my legs to keep me here.
” Running my tongue along the inside of my cheek, I taste the copperish tang of blood remaining.
Clayton sighs again, scrubbing a hand down his face.
The gesture makes him look older, more worn than I’ve ever seen him.
His features are gray, his mouth lined with worry.
I look away before I start feeling sorry for him.
We’re both fucked here, there’s no need to compare, even though I’m hurting more.
Looking down at my chest, disgust glints in Clayton’s onyx eyes at the tattered material hanging from my shoulders. I refused to let a medic near me, my mood too volatile to control my actions right now. One sting of antiseptic and I might just lose my damn mind.
Striding away, Clayton reappears to shove a fresh T-shirt into my hand. It’s not one of mine. The polyester scratches against the open gashes across my skin, the collar rough against my neck. It must be one he left behind when he walked out. The fucker.
The sound of radios crackling drifts in from the hallway, muffled orders followed by the distant clatter of boots.
We both turn to watch more cops enter, waiting for an update that never comes.
Clayton lowers onto the sofa and cracks his knuckles.
He swallows thickly, his lips forming around words that don’t make any sound.
I grit my teeth, knowing I’m going to regret this.
“Oh, spit it out already,” I shake my head, sitting on the edge of the coffee table.
Our knees are practically touching as I stare him down head-on.
I can’t avoid this anymore. We have to communicate.
“I won’t react. Just say it.” Clayton lifts a skeptical brow, not that I blame him, but speaks anyway.
“I didn’t think she’d really leave. I thought…she’d stay with you, to be honest. That you’d convince her to stay regardless.”
“So this is my fault? You’re the one—”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Clayton swipes a hand through the air.
“Forget it.” A stand-off of unspoken apologies weighs heavily between us, his glare meeting mine.
We’re both stubborn bastards, and there’s too much bad blood here to pretend we’re going to get along.
Still, I briefly close my eyes, forcing the ache back down where it belongs.
“You think I haven’t replayed that moment a thousand times?
” My voice trembles with the kind of fury that comes from heartbreak, not rage.
“How she looked at me before walking out the door, like she’d rather face life alone than be with only me.
” I press a hand over my sternum, feeling the blood seeping into the T-shirt.
“She left me. I let her leave me because I knew I wasn’t enough.
I can’t give her whatever she gets from you. ”
Clayton’s quiet for a moment. A moment that lasts for an eternity between my heart and my soul, his judgment pressing in. Then, when he speaks, the pity in his voice is even worse than I imagined it would be.
“You love her.”
“As much as you do,” I answer flatly. It’s a bitter confession I’ve been denying for too long.
There’s no denying it now. If I’m capable of love, then sure, Harper can have it.
Not that it’s doing her any good now. Clayton’s eyes flick up, the surprise there for only a heartbeat before exhaustion takes over again.
“Then we find her,” he states as if we can conjure up a lead by purely willing it into existence. But it beats sitting here feeling useless. Dragging in a deep breath that shakes on the way out, I nod.
“Okay, let’s go through this again. Tell me everything you know about Kenneth, don’t leave out a single damn detail.” I’ve already heard Clayton’s statement to the police officer when they caught up to him here, but I listen to him relay it again, every detail, every lead, every threat.
Clayton has already deduced that this Antonio kid must be Kenneth’s cousin and that they grew up in adjacent neighborhoods.
We connect the dots, figuring the ‘murderer’ written over his college jacket didn’t relate to Clayton’s brother at all, but to Antonio.
It was Kenneth visiting Clayton’s mom. It was his job at Toadfully Caffeinated that enabled him to drug Harper’s coffee.
Kenneth was present when needed and coincidentally wasn’t when he should have been, but not everything aligns.
I can’t imagine he has the secret offshore bank account that was used to blackmail Peterson.
Coming to a dead end, in particular on where he would take Harper and why he’d take her anywhere in the first place, I run a frustrated hand through my hair.
“Again,” I demand. Clayton groans and pushes to his feet.
“There’s nothing else,” he shrugs unhelpfully.
I track him towards the window, noticing how an amber light bleeds through the glass, announcing the arrival of dawn.
She’s been missing an entire night, and we’re still no closer to finding her.
Every second that passes feels like a deliberate fuck you carved into the clock.
The invisible collar at my neck is tightening, making it harder to breathe.