Chapter 22
CHAPTER
Y ou okay, babe?”
I feel like I’m about to burst. I’ve been here almost a half hour now, and Sam still hasn’t mentioned anything about Jocelyn. I’m trying to be patient, not let on how desperate I am to get the information, but it’s not easy when you’re running on caffeine and adrenaline.
I force a smile. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
Sam studies my face. I really wish he wouldn’t play detective with me. He shrugs. “You look tired. Stressed.”
Great. Now the shitstorm going on inside of my body is spilling over to the outside. “My neck’s bothering me again,” I lie. “Woke me up a few times the last couple of nights.”
He turns the burner down to simmer, walks around to the side of the island I’m sitting at, and puts his big hands on my shoulders. “You should’ve said something. You know I have magic fingers.”
Sam’s fingers are, in fact, pretty magical. He kneads into my neck muscles, and my head immediately drops a few inches. It feels like it’s just been disconnected from a tension rod. I can’t help it, I groan.
He presses his thumbs in deeper. “Feels good?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out. “Thanks.”
After a while, I start to think maybe the tension in my neck was the problem. Because it feels like I could curl up into a ball and go to sleep right now. But then Sam opens his mouth again . . .
“So, I found three people with your friend’s name in the state of Florida.”
My head jerks upright, and I brush his hands from my shoulders. “Oh?”
Sam kisses the top of my head. “Need to stir my sauce.” He walks back around to the other side of the island and starts fiddling with the knobs on the stove, as if I’m not holding my breath, waiting for the rest of what he has to say.
Of course he doesn’t know what’s at stake.
But when he opens the drawer where he keeps the spices and starts rummaging, I can’t wait any longer.
“And? What were you able to find out about the three people?”
He pulls out a jar of oregano, twists the cap, shakes some flakes into the sauce he’s making. “Two of them are easy enough to rule out. You said you and your friend went to high school together, so I’m assuming she’s mid- to late thirties?”
I nod. “We’re the same age.”
“That’s what I figured. One of the three is only sixteen, and one is in her late eighties.”
“And the third?”
Sam turns and meets my gaze. “She’s in prison.”
My eyes grow wide. “Prison? For what?”
“Manslaughter.”
It feels like my heart is trying to pound through the wall of my chest. “She killed someone?”
He nods. “Drunk driving, five years ago. Blew a stop sign. Hit an old man.”
I’d thought maybe Jocelyn had gotten married, or even died.
Prison had never entered my brain. Though it makes sense, doesn’t it?
Drinking. Being reckless. No doubt she’s struggled with both since what happened.
Jocelyn hadn’t had it easy from the start.
That’s why she let a forty-year-old man take advantage of her.
I digest this new information, swallow it down.
But then a new crop of questions bubbles from my gut.
Could it still be her? From prison? They have computers and internet access there, right?
At least that’s what it seems, though granted, my education on the subject comes from Law maybe they kept in contact.
Though I hate the thought of talking to anyone from my little town about her, and for some stupid reason I still don’t want to leave a digital footprint of me asking about Jocelyn.
Which is absolutely ridiculous at this point, considering I’ve asked an NYPD detective for help, yet I decide against making waves with anyone connected to Minton Parish. Instead, I respond truthfully.
Elizabeth: I do, too. You were always a good friend to me, Lucas.
He responds right away.
Unknown: Doesn’t have to be past tense. Give me a call if you find yourself back in town. I’d love to see you.
Elizabeth: Take care of yourself, Lucas.
Unknown: You, too, Elizabeth.
I sigh and look around my apartment. I usually don’t go to sleep until eleven, but the pharmacy bag on my kitchen counter is calling my name.
I tear it open, twist the cap off the bottle, and swallow two Ambien without any water.
I’m determined to sleep tonight, so much so that I plug my cell into the living room charger, rather than taking it into the bedroom and using the one on my nightstand like I normally do.
The last thing I need is another call from the breather to wake me and keep me up all night.
Ten minutes later, I climb into bed and wait for the medicine to kick in.
My mind races with so many thoughts. Does Noah know who I am?
Who donated that Saint Agnes statue? How long does my mother have left?
I need to break things off with Sam. But the question my mind keeps coming back to tonight is, Where the hell is Jocelyn?