31. Operation Find My Favorite Human
OPERATION: FIND MY FAVORITE HUMAN
CHARLIE
I managed to get off work early, which is good, because I can’t stop worrying about Owen.
When I told him about Giovanni and The Shadowridge, he left.
I could tell he needed some time to process, and following after him wasn’t going to give him that.
When I finally heard his truck pull into the driveway last night, I was already in bed, but I hadn’t even begun to calm my mind enough to fall asleep. Knowing he made it home safely helped.
Which was good, because I had to go into work so much earlier than normal today to help with the search for Giovanni.
The package going missing that the courier had left that night in The Shadowridge—the one that Ledger snuck in to take after I found it—must’ve really spooked him because he’s gone underground .
I’ve been tracking his credit cards, wire transfers on any of his accounts, watching for hotel stays or purchases that match his or any of his aliases’ spending patterns, and tracking his phones and tablets. It was all going well until suddenly, there was nothing. No hints of him anywhere.
He has to still be in Italy, though, because I’ve also been using real-time facial recognition software to scan airport terminals, major metro stations, train stations, toll booth cameras, gas stations, bus station CCTV, customs lines, and I’ve been monitoring coastal surveillance systems, and he hasn’t appeared on any.
Which makes it so much more difficult to arrest him.
When I leave work and make it back to my place, Owen’s truck isn’t in the driveway, which isn’t strange for this time of day.
He probably won’t be home for another hour.
But I still don’t let my phone out of sight as I head upstairs to change out of my pink work dress and black cardigan and into jeans and a dark gray tee.
I’ve been texting him all day, but haven’t heard a single thing from him.
I’m really getting worried. I dumped a lot on him last night, and I need to know if he’s okay.
I’m hurrying down the stairs so I can head to his work when Reese gets home. She’s hanging her school lanyard and keys on the hook as I round the corner, and she looks at me, anticipation all over her face. “I never saw you last night, and I’ve been dying for an update! So, did you tell him?”
It takes me a moment of just staring at Reese, wondering how she knew I was going to tell Owen about Giovanni and wondering why she’s acting excited about it, before I realize she’s asking if I told Owen about my kidnapping.
“Oh! No, I didn’t.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Charlie, you swore. And I took out the nasty garbage.”
“I know. And I will do some other nasty chore to make it up to you. But he got some devastating news, so I couldn’t.”
Her expression immediately changes into one of concern. “Is everything okay?”
I shake my head and say, “I don’t know. I need to go find him.”
Owen’s truck isn’t at The Shadowridge, but I still park and head inside. I find Grady working to prep a long wall for painting, and I ask if he knows where Owen is.
“Not a clue,” Grady says. “He was here until this afternoon, but he hasn’t been himself all day.”
Trent came over when he saw me and adds, “Yeah, normally the guy has a smile twenty-four, seven. I don’t think he smiled once today.”
Then Grady tells me, “He said he got some bad news and needed to blow off steam right before he left, but he didn’t say anything about where.”
I thank them and head back to my car, worrying about Owen even more than I had before going inside. Where would he go if he were upset? Obviously not to me or one of the guys he works with. Home to Bridleford? That hour-long drive might’ve been what he needed.
That doesn’t feel right, though. To a park?
To visit a friend at one of his previous site locations?
His sister is back at college in Boulder, so visiting her wouldn’t be easy.
Hopefully, he didn’t just hop on a plane without telling anyone.
Maybe he went for a run? Nothing feels right, and I’m racking my brain trying to figure out where he could be.
Then it hits me. At Jace and Mackenzie’s wedding, Zoe had asked if he ever went to bars to blow off steam.
He’d mentioned one in Baltimore. Not by name, but said he liked it because of the architecture and because it was a good place to think.
What had he said about it? Oh! That it was a carriage house for a nearby hotel, built in…
1880-something? I pull out my phone and start Googling.
Apparently, there aren’t too many carriage-houses-turned-bars built in the late 1800s in Baltimore, so I find it pretty quickly. It’s called Loose Reins, and my phone says it’ll take forty-two minutes to drive there.
When I pull up to the building, it’s easy to see why Owen said he loves this place.
It has the same character and attention to detail as the courthouse in his hometown and feels drenched in history.
I head inside, where there’s exposed brick on the walls and on the front of the bar, timber beams, and a lot of ironwork.
It has a partial wall dividing it from the other half of the space.
A few people sit at tables on this side, but not Owen, and what little sound I’m hearing is coming from the other side. I head back there.
Everyone starts cheering just as I round the wall.
There are quite a few more people here—probably twenty-five or thirty.
I spot Owen sitting alone toward the front of the space, and I finally exhale in relief at seeing he’s okay.
Well, okay, but not great. His back is to me, but his face is turned just enough for me to see that he’s wearing an intense expression of focus.
I’m just about to wind my way through the tables and chairs to go to him when a man steps up to a microphone on a stage that’s maybe a foot higher than the floor. “Now,” he says, “let’s give it up for our next performer, Owen Hollis!”
Owen stands, and I feel so clueless about what is going on right now.
As he walks to the stage, I take a seat at an empty table toward the back.
There’s a chair on the stage, and Owen sits on it, pulls the microphone from the stand, and looking down at a spot on the floor that’s maybe ten feet in front of him, instead of looking at the crowd, he starts to talk.
“The One with Arched Beams and Terrible Timing.” He clears his throat and then says, “You were built in nineteen thirteen. Back when wood spoke in curves. When ironwork still wore the blacksmith’s breath. When blueprints whispered like love letters to possibility.”
I gasp quietly. Is this a spoken word poetry night? I look around at the people sitting at tables. All eyes are on Owen.
I think back to when the power had gone out and Owen and I were chatting in my dark living area.
I had asked him to name something that made him smile.
He’d said something along the lines of using his vast knowledge of random historical facts, and one of the only ways it was useful was in writing epic poetry.
Why had I not asked more about that when he’d said it?
I hadn’t even pictured something like this.
Maybe I could’ve talked him into doing it more.
I know his subject matter is The Shadowridge. He speaks with the careful timing of someone sculpting words, and he tells about how they don’t make entrances or lay bricks like hers anymore. Like permanence was a promise. Then he says, “And I care. I care too much. Which is the problem.
“See, they told me not to fall for you. Not in so many words. But in red tape and grant applications. And that one guy from zoning who thinks joy is a code violation.”
I chuckle, right along with most of the others watching.
I know that Owen is hurting. I also know that he prefers to have a smile on his face, even when things are hard.
It’s comforting to know that even when everything must feel like it’s crashing down around him, he can still find the humor. He’s still my Owen.
He continues. “They said, ‘Don’t get attached. It’s just a job.’ But they didn’t see you in the morning light. When the dust catches the sun through leaded glass. And your floorboards creak like an old soul stretching its limbs.
“They didn’t run their fingers along your balustrades. And feel the past rise up under their touch. You’ve got stories in your moldings and a heartbeat in your beams. (And possibly mice in the balcony, but we don’t talk about that.)”
Gosh, I love this man. This is so beautiful and is absolutely breaking my heart. Even more than the words he’s saying or the cadence he’s using, it’s his earnestness and the way it feels like he’s baring things deep in his soul. He’s pouring so much feeling into every line.
“And maybe I got in too deep. Maybe I should’ve just done the job. Hammer, level, plaster, paycheck. But I kept seeing more. More than just what you were. More than what you could be. I saw you . Becoming fully alive again.
“And maybe that’s what hurts the most. Because still… I might lose you.”
I dab a knuckle under my eye. He’s going to make me cry.
“I might have to walk away and never touch that stage again. Never fix the last cracked tile. Never leave my own mark on your long line of caretakers. But even if I do…
“You’ll still be the one. The one who taught me that love is sometimes made of sawdust and scaffolding. But also the one where I learned that love doesn’t have to be planned to be right. That love comes in sticky notes, and patio talks, and concern through a taped-closed door.”
He was talking about me! I hold in a sob so I won’t miss anything.
“The one who proved I could dream in brick and light and shadow. The one with arched beams and terrible timing.
“I don’t know what happens next. But I know this. Some things—even me—are worth fixing. Even when the world says they’re already lost.”
Owen bows his head and places the microphone in his lap.
Everyone in the place starts cheering, and I stand and cheer, too.
Owen stands, puts the mic back, and dips his head in a bow.
Then he looks out at the audience, and our eyes meet.
Surprise and disbelief cross his face, followed quickly by happiness.
Whew! I was kind of worried that he didn’t want me here.
He hurries off the low stage and winds his way between the tables of people toward me. When he reaches me, he’s searching my face. “You came. How are you even here?”
“I was worried about you.”
He hugs me tight for a long moment, and I squeeze him right back, not releasing until he does. Then he pulls back enough to really look at me and asks, “How did you find me?”
“Well, let’s see. A hint from your crew, remembering you talked about an old carriage house at the wedding, some Googling, and a bit of driving. I can’t say I was expecting it all to lead me to spoken word poetry.”
“Well, we all grieve in different ways.”
We both walk around the partial wall to the other side of the bar and slide into one of the few booths. “I can’t believe you found me with that little to go on.”
If he only had any idea how little I need. Or how experienced I am in finding people who don’t want to be found. “Well, we all worry in different ways.”
He chuckles, and I ask him how he’s doing.
“I’m working on getting to acceptance. But I’ve mostly been stuck on a merry-go-round of the other stages.
” He pauses a moment, then says, “I want to go to The Shadowridge tonight. I know that at some unknown point, things could move quickly, but since I don’t know when it will suddenly be my last day inside the building for a while, or possibly ever, I want to make sure I get a chance to give a proper goodbye. Do you want to go with me?”
I nod. “I would be honored to.”