Chapter 4 #2
Admittedly, inside, I am screaming with delight because I remember how good a detective he was. My mom’s case is in the right hands.
“See you in a minute.”
I lean in, pressing my ear to the door, waiting for more. Nothing. Not a sound.
The door flies open. I lose my footing and collide straight into a wall of muscle.
Strong arms wrap around me, steadying me like I’m some clumsy extra in a rom-com.
“Whoa,” he says, practically lifting me off my feet before setting me upright again.
His hands linger at my waist, and for one second, I forget how to breathe.
When I finally find my voice, I look up—and yep, there it is. That look. Attraction, curiosity, maybe even that spark I remember from a year ago. But then, as if realizing it, he clenches his jaw, releases me, and steps back like I just announced I have the plague.
“Are you in the habit of eavesdropping, Sheridan?” He sweeps his arm over the threshold, inviting me in.
“I wasn’t listening,” I lie.
“Mm-hmm.”
Sheridan.
That’s what he always called me last year. Never Rose. Just my last name.
Sheridan.
I loved it then. Do I now though?
Maybe. I don't know.
My attention immediately starts roving over his workspace. I mean, offices are kind of extensions of our own personal lives, right? He spends a lot of time in this tiny room day in and day out. Maybe I can get a glimpse into this man as I wait.
“Why haven’t I been in here before?” I ask, thinking back to a year ago and the time we spent together.
At the end of the day, I would get in my car and leave.
If I ever went inside the station, it was to pee before I would head home.
We argued so much that I wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible.
“There was never a reason.” He’s right.
His fingers drum against his thigh as I continue to roam. I have to do something to occupy the negative thoughts in my head about my mom.
Immediately, my eyes land on a picture of him with President Obama that hangs on the wall.
Impressive.
A small red neon sign hangs above the door frame.
Random.
A mug that says World’s Best Son.
Sweet.
It’s all here. A couple of plants on a filing cabinet, his desk, a swivel chair, piles of paperwork. It’s all so methodical, organized, and polished.
Kinda like the man himself.
The moment stretches like taffy as he continues to watch me. It’s painfully quiet. I force a polite smile, hoping to diffuse the weird tension. He offers one back, quick and tight. It’s as if we both forgot how to act like normal people.
My gaze wanders and lands on a photo sitting near his desk. I can’t see it clearly from here, just the edge of a frame and a flash of movement frozen in time. But something about it tugs at me.
Cal’s reaction is instant. He follows my gaze, stiffens, then launches across the room. “That’s—uh—personal,” he mutters, scooping the frame up so fast it blurs.
He opens a drawer, tosses the photo inside, and slams it shut.
My brows rise. “Wow. Not suspicious at all.”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t say anything. His back stays to me, shoulders squared, tension rolling off him. Then, quietly, he says, “It’s just a photo of me and someone.”
I should leave it alone. Right?
Curiosity wins. “Someone important?”
He exhales through his nose, still not facing me. “Someone who mattered once.”
Oh.
I open my mouth, then close it again, because what do you even say to that? It’s none of my business, anyway.
He clears his throat, avoiding eye contact, and sits at his desk. “Can you please sit down?”
“Sure.” I sit.
Slumping back in his chair, he grabs his phone, and rests his ankle on his opposite knee while I try to find something to look at. Or think about.
Another unpleasant silence stretches on for far longer than I am comfortable with, and a nasty habit of mine roars to life as I wait. His voice cuts through my thoughts. “You’re picking your nails.” My eyes shoot up, and he’s staring at me, brow furrowed.
I drop my hands, embarrassed, so of course I start to … “Now you’re biting your lip.”
“Boy, you really like to point out all my quirks, don’t you?” He only stares. I sigh. “I’m sorry, I’m just very—”
“Nervous,” he answers for me. “I remember.”
Wait. What? He remembers. Why?
The same look of concern crosses his features. “It’s going to be okay, Sheridan. I promise I will do everything to find your mom.”
A tightness chokes me as I fight back the tears because now he’s brought her up. I plead, “Do you know anything? Any information at all?”
His face falls as he drops his phone on the desk and rests on his forearms. The motion reminds me of the night at the bar. “We should probably wait until Denny gets here.”
I nod with emptiness. “It’s the not knowing that’s the hardest,” I confess, then begin to ramble. “Like, is she hurt? Bleeding? Where is she? Or maybe she’s d…” I turn away, not saying the word. “I just want answers. Which is why I need to be a part of this. I won’t stop until she’s found.”
He gives me a sad smile. “Me neither. And this can’t be easy. On any level.”
“No, it’s the worst feeling in the world.”
He pauses. “Hopeless.”
My head snaps to his. He gets it. “Yes. Hopeless.”
His whole expression relaxes, touched with something gentler. “Look, before Denny gets here, I wanted you to know that I’m sorry for how I—”
Whatever he was going to apologize for hangs suspended, unfinished, as Denny bursts into the room, panting heavily. As if he’d run all the way here from wherever he was.
“Oh good, you’re still here,” he heaves out as he holds the doorknob. Where did he think I would go exactly?
Denny isn’t a tall man. He’s of average height but definitely not of average build.
You can tell he possesses the type of brute strength that you can just …
see. Kinda like he grew up on a farm. Broad shoulders, thick arms and fingers, a wide neck.
He’s someone I would want on my side if I were in a dark alley. Hands down.
But also, his face carries years of experience. His dark blond hair is thinning, and his deep-set brown eyes have a few extra creases around the edges. But you can tell there is a kindness lurking underneath. He’s a handsome older man.
Honestly, he’s the type of guy my mom would be interested in.
The sudden thought of my mom maybe never finding love again makes my stomach churn. “I’m still here. No plans of leaving,” I answer with determination.
He gives me a tight smile, then turns his attention to Cal. “Let’s go down to interrogation room two. I think it’s open.”
My neck snaps back. “Interrogation room?” I question, concern rattling every syllable.
I don’t like the sound of that. Talk about intimidating.
I do not want to go into a room where they brow-beat confessions out of criminals.
Is that why I’m here? Oh, God! Do they think I’m a suspect? I bite my lip.
Cal’s attention immediately falls on me, staring, assessing.
He bolts, chasing Denny into the hall.
I watch the two men talking with rapt attention. And yes, also attempting to listen, but they are too far out of earshot. Actually, Cal is talking; Denny agrees. Finally, Denny disappears down the hall as Cal comes back into his office. “He’ll be right back.”
Keeping his head down, he doesn’t look at me. Only sits studying his phone again. I watch him, questioning, not fully understanding.
Did he notice my reaction? He must have. The way his mouth twitches gives it away.
“Did you tell Denny that we should meet here?” I ask, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t even look up from whatever’s so fascinating on his phone. “I wanted you to be comfortable.”
“That wasn’t necessary,” I lie, refusing to act like I needed his help.
“Clearly.” His tone drips with sarcasm. “But I did it, anyway.”
“I didn’t ask for your concern,” I bite back, folding my arms.
His jaw flexes, that muscle ticking in a way that used to drive me insane. “So this is how it’s going to be then? Being combative with me won’t help your mom’s case.”
I force a fake sweet smile. “Cool. Noted. Non-combative Rose reporting for duty. Shall we try small talk then?”
He finally glances up, one eyebrow raised. “We’ve never been good at that.”
“Well, we’d better start practicing. Finding my mom depends on it.”
He nods, but the silence that follows is … uncomfortable.
“So,” I say, desperate, “what have you been up to since I last saw you?”
He smirks, leaning back in his chair. “You’re looking at it.”
God, that confidence. That infuriating, smug confidence.
I shift in my seat, forcing my attention to the window. “We have some bad storms coming.”
“Yeah,” he says, clicking his tongue. “That’s what I hear.”
A long pause stretches, and because I clearly have a death wish, I add, “Still a fan of black, I see.”
His grin flickers, slow and wicked. “I hate color.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it—half snort, half sigh. “Explains a lot.”
He chuckles, low and quiet, breaking the tension somewhat. But then his body goes rigid, and his eyes narrow. “So how’s Niko?”
I freeze at his question. Wait. What? Niko? Why is he asking about Niko? How does he know about Niko?
“Niko?” I retort. He shrugs. “Why are you asking me about my ex?”
His expression falls as his brows pinch together and my words sink in.
“Your ex?”
“Yes, my ex. We broke up three weeks ago.” The defensiveness hits me hard. “How did you even know we were together to begin with?”
He lowers his focus, adjusting his tie that’s already straight. “I’m sorry, Sheridan. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
But I’m not letting this go. “Cal, why are you asking about—”
The words die on my tongue as Denny bursts through the door, a bulging manila envelope clutched in his hand. “Ms. Sheridan, thank you for your patience,” he says, completely unaware of what he’s just broken apart.
I glance at Cal, silently screaming at the interruption. His jaw tightens, eyes meeting mine for the briefest second before looking away. As if the moment between us had never existed.
Denny shimmies his stalky body around my seat, sitting in the empty chair next to mine. “No problem,” I mutter.
He looks up at Cal and smirks. “I hope Cal was keeping you company.”
Cal shoots him a disbelieving glance, which morphs into an ‘I’m going to kill you’ expression. Denny chuckles under his breath as a silent conversation passes between them.
Suddenly, I feel like a third wheel.
Denny turns his attention back to me. “Ms. Sheridan, we want you to know that we are working tirelessly, around the clock, trying to find your mother. Cal here”—he points to the man in black—“has barely slept.”
What? He’s barely slept? Helping me?
I steal a look at Cal. He only nods. “Good. I expect nothing less.”
Denny continues. “We know your mom was last seen at the hotel three nights ago. Where and how she disappeared is what we are trying to piece together.”
I find myself picking my fingers again without realizing it.
Cal notices, his eyes zeroing in on my hands.
“Initially, nothing turned up.” My shoulders sag in defeat.
“However, this morning, we received a call from the front desk, stating that a hotel guest turned in a few things they found in the parking garage. We asked them to inform us if anything showed up. So they did.”
Without meaning to, my eyes flick to Cal. His brows knit together, worry etched deep. Then his eyes find mine, and for a moment, I can breathe again.
Denny reaches for the manila envelope. “Ms. Sheridan. Are these your mother’s belongings?”
One at a time, Denny begins to pull random items out of the envelope.
Items I recognize immediately.
Her glittery pink clutch is first. I run my fingers over the sequins.
Next follows her compact with her initial embossed on the outside. A gift from my father. He sets it on top of the clutch.
Denny’s meaty fingers pulls out a gold tube of lipstick. Her signature color. Charlotte Tilbury’s Super Fabulous. He sets it next to the compact.
The whole revelation is happening in slow motion.
Next is her red leather Chanel wallet. He sets it down next to the clutch. “It was emptied out.”
I nod at his words as tears begin, and my fingertips graze the soft leather. Before I can react further, Cal leaps from his seat and stands right behind me. How did he figure out I needed comfort?
His hand rests on the back of my seat.
I sniff through the emotions coursing through me. “This was all that was in the purse. We suspect that when someone found it, they emptied it out. Her ID as well.”
“May I?” I ask, pointing to the clutch.
“Of course,” Denny answers.
I grab it, unzip the top, and search inside.
The comforting force behind me shifts. “Are you looking for something?” Cal asks.
I nod. “My dad’s wedding ring. My mom wouldn’t leave the house without it.”
Denny glances up at Cal. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sheridan. This is all that was in there.”
It’s gone. Sadness overwhelms me.
“I know this is hard, and I’m so sorry, but do these items belong to your mother?” Denny asks.
I sniffle and choke out the answer to his loaded question. “Y-Yes. They do.”
Denny’s hand reaches into the envelope and pulls out a zip-lock bag with a piece of paper inside.
Cal steps closer.
“One more question.” Denny rests the bag in front of me. “Is this your mother’s handwriting?”