Chapter 11 Riley
RILEY
Isit on the edge of the sectional couch in Rafe's living room, cradling a mug of coffee between my palms and staring at the fireplace.
The flames flicker low, casting orange light across the stone hearth, and I watch them dance without really seeing them.
My body aches from sitting at the laptop for hours, my eyes burn from staring at screens, and my brain feels like it's been wrung out and left to dry.
I wish this were hot cocoa instead of coffee.
The thought is childish, absurd even, given everything that's happened.
But I can't help it. Hot cocoa means Christmas mornings with my mother in the kitchen, marshmallows melting into sweet foam, my sister complaining about how early we have to wake up for church.
Hot cocoa means home. And right now, home feels like another planet.
I take a sip of the coffee and grimace. It's bitter, strong, and nothing like what I want.
Through the front window, I can see the neighbors across the street hanging lights along their porch railing.
A man on a ladder strings them carefully from post to post while a woman stands below, holding the coil of wire and calling up directions.
Their breath fogs in the cold air, visible even from here, and I watch them work with a dull ache spreading through my chest.
They're getting ready for Christmas, decorating their house, planning dinners and parties and all the normal things people do this time of year. And I'm sitting here, a prisoner in a stranger's home, hacking financial records for a man who threatened to kill my family if I don't cooperate.
I set the coffee mug on the side table and stand.
My legs feel stiff, my muscles tight from sitting too long, and I stretch my arms over my head, trying to work out the knots.
The house is quiet. Rafe's somewhere down the hall, probably in his office or his bedroom, and I haven't seen him since we got back from the office this afternoon.
That suits me fine. Every conversation with him feels like walking a tightrope, one wrong word away from falling.
The sex was hot, but this aftermath feels horribly awkward and I don’t know where I stand now.
I walk toward the front door, drawn by the sight of those Christmas lights. I don't plan to leave—I'm not that stupid—but I need air. I need to see something that isn't these walls, this fireplace, this endless loop of spreadsheets and transaction logs.
My hand reaches for the doorknob but before I can turn it, I hear, "Where are you going?"
I freeze. Rafe's voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see him standing in the hallway. He's dressed in the same jeans and sweater from earlier, his dark hair falling across his forehead, and his eyes are locked on me with that unnerving focus he always has.
"I was going to step outside," I say defensively before I can stop myself. "Get some air. Look at the lights."
"No."
"I wasn't going to run. I was just—"
"I said no."
I glare at him, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "I can't even stand on the porch now?"
"Not tonight."
"Why not?"
Like normal, he gives me no rationalization or explanation and this time, I'm surprised when he decides to grab my arm and manhandle me. It's not the sexy "I'm gonna throw you down and mate you" sort of grab, either.
"What are you doing?" I ask, trying to pull free. "Rafe, I wasn't—"
"Shut up and walk."
The command is cold, and I stop fighting.
I let him guide me into his office, where he releases my arm only after I'm standing in front of his desk.
He moves to the computer and taps the keyboard, waking the monitors.
The screens glow to life, and I see a news website pulled up with a bold headline and a horrible picture of me.
Local Woman Reported Missing After Week Without Contact
My stomach drops as Rafe clicks on the video embedded in the article, and my father's face fills the screen. He's standing on the front porch of my parents' house, bundled in his winter coat, his gray hair mussed by the wind. His blue eyes are red-rimmed, and his voice shakes as he speaks.
"Riley left for home over two weeks ago," he says.
"She was supposed to be here by nightfall.
She sent an email saying she had car trouble, but we haven't heard from her since.
This isn't like her. Riley's responsible.
She doesn't just disappear. If anyone has seen her or knows where she is, please contact us. Please. We just want her home safe."
The camera pans to show my mother standing beside him, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, her hazel eyes filled with tears. And she just stands there, gripping my father's arm, while I feel my throat tighten.
Behind them, another man steps into frame. He's tall and lean, with silver hair and a gray uniform. A badge glints on his chest. He introduces himself as Detective Paul Hargrove, retired state trooper, and explains that he's assisting the family in their search.
"We're treating this as a missing persons case," he says.
"Riley Maddox was last seen just outside of New York City.
Her car was seen on the side of the highway where we assume she got a flat tire, and there's been no activity on her bank accounts or phone since she disappeared.
We're asking anyone with information to come forward. "
The video ends and the screen goes black, but I stare at it, my pulse pounding in my ears.
I can't move. It's like something wrapped around my chest and made me stop breathing too.
My family is looking for me and asking for my safe return.
It feels paralyzing to know I'm here watching them and I can't tell them I'm okay.
"Who is he?" Rafe asks.
I blink and look at him. "What?"
"The cop. Who is he?"
"My sister's fiancé's father. He's a retired state trooper."
I watch the muscles in Rafe's jaw work as he leans back against the desk and crosses his arms, eyes on me. "He's pushing an investigation."
"Of course he is. I've been missing for over a week."
"You told them you were fine."
"An email, Rafe. One fucking generic email that didn't tell them anything. Did you really think that would be enough?"
His expression darkens and I can tell he's thinking irrationally again, just like he did when he demanded that I hack the fucking FBI. I swear this man is going to get me killed if he doesn't do it himself soon.
"I told them exactly what you told me to say, but people were always going to start looking for me.
That's what happens when someone disappears.
Because I have people who actually care about me.
" I'm feeling emotional now, and worked up.
I don't mean to be hateful, but the words snap out like venom anyway.
"But you wouldn't know what that means, would you? "
He stares at me, and for a moment, I think I've gone too far. His eyes are cold, and his body is tense. My instincts scream at me to step back, but I don't. I hold my ground, my chin tilted up, and I keep talking.
"You're heartless," I say. "You threaten people.
You take what you want. You don't care who gets hurt as long as you get what you need.
So no, I don't think you understand what it's like to have people who love you.
People who notice when you're gone. People who would tear the world apart to find you. "
All of this—the anger, the gesturing of my hands, the emotional hysterics I'm feeling—all of it was just the loneliness of missing my family until I saw that newscast. Now I feel out of control.
"I didn't start this. You did. You put a dead body in my car—"
"No," he growls, and there's something in his eyes now. I'm scared of him when he looks at me like this, or maybe I’m turned on and I'm scared of that.
"You think I wanted this?" he asks. "I didn’t put that body in your car. One of my enemies did and it forced my hand. I didn't want you anywhere near my financials."
"Then let me go."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. You just won't."
He steps closer, and I feel my thighs press against the desk. His eyes are on mine and I can feel the heat radiating off his body. The air between us feels charged and volatile, and I realize my pulse is racing.
"You think it's that simple?" he asks. "You think I can just open the door and let you walk out of here? You know too much. You've seen too much. You're a liability."
"So, what? You're going to kill me when this is done? Is that the plan?"
He doesn't answer but he curls his bottom lip into his mouth and bites it in anger.
"And my family?" I press. "Are you going to kill them too? Because they’re not going to stop looking."
"I don't kill people unless I have to. I'm not a cold-blooded murderer." The way his eyes bore into mine is frightening. I see right into his soul, see the pain of what my words are doing to him.
He's thinking about what he's doing to me and what it's making me feel, and he doesn't care for what he's feeling.
I've found the way to twist the knife, but I know even if I carved out his heart and showed him how black it is, it would change nothing.
He's desperate, and desperate men do stupid shit.
"You're a coward," I say in my most venomous tone. "You hide behind threats and guns and men who do your dirty work. But deep down, you're just scared. Scared of losing control. Scared of being alone. Scared that if you let anyone get close, they'll see what you really are."
Rafe's jaw tenses again, the thick muscle low on his cheek bulging as he grits his teeth, and I know I've hit my mark. I hate him, hate all he stands for, so why do I feel guilty for saying things I know are true?
Maybe I'm trying to get that rise out of him, to force his hand. So maybe he'll grab me and throw me around again and—
"Get out of my office," he says.
"What?" Confusion slices through me like a dagger, breaking every conscious thought I have and physically aching in my chest.
"I said get out." He's calm now, not raising his voice, and his eyes stare through me, not at me.
It's a faraway look that makes me feel panicked, like he's done with me and I'm nothing to him.
And I realize I don't want to be nothing to him.
I don't like him being done with me. That's not what I wanted at all.
I blink, confused. "Rafe—"
"Now."
His voice is devoid of emotion, and it sends a chill down my spine. I stand there for a moment, waiting for him to say something else, to do something, to give me any indication of what he's thinking. But he just turns away, facing the monitors, his back rigid.
I walk to the door on unsteady legs and glance back at him one last time. He doesn't move or look at me, and I feel like this hurts worse than if he just put a gun to my head and shot me. Way worse.
I step into the hallway and close the door behind me, then stand there with my heart racing and my hands still trembling.
I try to make sense of what just happened.
The argument was familiar—heated, intense, full of the same sharp back-and-forth that always seems to flare between us. But this time, something was different.
He didn't do any of the things I expected him to do.
Or any of the things I wanted him to.
I walk back to the living room and sink onto the couch feeling hollow inside.
The fire has burned down to embers now, glowing faintly in the hearth.
The neighbors have finished hanging their lights, and the porch across the street glows with warm, festive color, but it feels like a punishment now more than ever.
What the hell just happened? Why didn't he grab me or put me in my place? Why did Rafe shut down and turn away from the fight I know he gets off on?
I think about my father's face on that screen. The tears in my mother's eyes. The desperation in their voices. They're looking for me. They're worried. And I can't do anything to help them.
Then I think about what I said to Rafe.
The words were cruel. Intentionally so. I wanted to hurt him the way he's hurt me. I wanted to make him feel something, anything, other than that cold, controlled indifference he always shows.
But I wonder if I went too far.
Because for just a moment, before he turned away, I know I saw pain in his eyes. It was my point, wasn't it? To make him feel something.. And he did. But it hurts me as much as it hurt him.
And I don't know what to do with that.
I can't stop thinking about the way Rafe looked at me before he told me to leave.
I don't know what's happening between us. I don't know if it's hatred or attraction or some twisted combination of both. But I do know one thing.
Whatever I said to him tonight, it hit a nerve.
And I'm not sure if that makes me feel victorious or guilty.