Chapter 6
Six
Jameson
“I mailed you a couple of DNA samples,” I tell Miles, my phone warm against my ear as I shoulder the door to my motel room open.
The door sticks halfway, scraping against the worn, dingy carpet before finally giving way.
The air hits me like a damp rag. Musky with stale cigarettes and the acrid tang of bleach.
It clings to my clothes, coating my tongue.
I toss my keys onto the chipped dresser, the jingle echoing in the hollow room.
On the other end, I hear the faint clicking of a keyboard. “Do you think it’s her?”
Dropping onto the edge of the bed, I run a hand through my hair. “I’m not sure. That’s why I need those results.”
“Does this have anything to do with the search that was just run on your name twenty minutes ago?”
So, she looked me up. Smart girl.
She won’t find much. I gave her my real name, but all she’ll get is a bland professional profile for a land surveyor, courtesy of Miles. No socials. No traceable history. It’s too risky in my line of work.
Which reminds me—
“Thanks again for giving me the world's most boring job as a cover asshole,” I grit out, already mentally planning my payback.
His laugh bursts through the phone, keys clicking faster. “That was for telling that pretty redhead at the bar, the story about me shitting myself on the eighth-grade field trip. Which, by the way, was your fault.”
Damn it. I thought he forgot about that.
“There were no rules when you bet me you could take her home by the end of the night.”
His tone shifts, losing the humor. “Everything good, man?”
I rub a hand down my face, feeling the scratch of my beard under my palm. “Yeah. Everything's fine. How long for the results?”
“Two weeks, give or take,” he says, his voice still edged with suspicion.
Fuck. I was hoping for sooner.
“Call me as soon as you have the results. I’ll keep an eye on her until then.”
“Will do. Just…be careful,” Miles warns. “If she’s who we think she is, she’s clever.”
“I always am.” I hang up and toss my phone aside.
I wasn’t following Lane earlier when I spotted her leaving Between the Pages.
After mailing the samples, I stopped at the coffee shop across the street and sat outside.
Then I felt it, that pull again. The same one from last night.
Like my body knew before my eyes did. I looked up, and there she was.
Last night, when I came back to my room after the bar, I searched both Lane's and Kam’s names. Not a single mention of Lane Maddox anywhere on the internet. Odd.
Next, I searched Kam’s name. Her shop info and socials popped up, nothing out of the ordinary. I scrolled each one, searching for a thread back to Lane. Again nothing. And again, very odd.
I rub at my temples, a tension headache quickly forming. I should stay away from her until I get the DNA results. Because, despite what I told Miles, and myself, “keeping an eye” on her isn’t the only reason I want to see her again.
Fuck it.
I snatch my phone off the bed, shoving it into my pocket, and grab my keys on the way out the door.
The sun is setting when I pull up to The Broken Bottle, casting the one-story run-down building in hues of pinks and oranges. This building has definitely seen better days.
The sign hanging above the front door is faded.
The siding warped and peeling. A flickering OPEN sign buzzes weakly in the window.
The parking lot is full of potholes. Inside, it’s not much better; a burn ridden, dingy carpet covers the floor surrounding the bar, the leather barstools are cracked and worn, and layers of nicotine and grease cover the walls.
My phone rings as I throw my Bronco into park and kill the engine.
Unknown number.
Fuck.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen before finally answering. “Hello?”
“Have you found her?” my client demands, voice clipped, skipping pleasantries.
Asshole.
He called our office six months ago from a blocked number and offered us half a million dollars, ten grand up front, to find Ceciley Knox. Miles and I were apprehensive, but turning down half a mil is a lot harder than one might think.
“Not yet,” I lie, my fingers tightening on the wheel. “But we are getting closer.”
“With the amount of money I’m paying you, Mr. Crowe, I expected better. It’s been six months.”
My jaw flexes. “Do you have any idea how many towns there are in Western Pennsylvania? It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.”
Finding her with the limited information he provided was pure fucking luck. If Lane is Ceciley, she did a damn good job hiding herself.
He ignores me, his voice flat. “The person who recommended you said you were the best at finding people. Perhaps they were wrong.”
Jesus fucking christ. The nerve of this guy.
“We told you, when you first called, that it could take us a year or more. We are well within that time frame.”
“You have six months.” His tone drops, cold as steel. “I suggest you find her within that time frame. Don’t disappoint me, Mr. Crowe. You don’t want me as an enemy.”
Click.
The line goes dead.
Even after six months, we still have no fucking clue who he is.
Miles has tried tracking him but came up empty.
He’s smart enough to call from a different burner phone each time and destroys it after each call.
We’ve looked into Byron’s family, but came up empty.
His father was the first person we looked into, but he died a few years back. Same with any friends he had.
I drop my head back and pinch the bridge of my nose. I should go back to the motel. Hell, I should drive back to New York until we get the results.
Instead, I step out of my Bronco and stalk toward the door. The smell of spilled beer and cigarette smoke fills my nose as I step inside.
My boots thud against the worn, slightly sticky carpet with every step. A few heads turn, sizing me up before returning to their drinks.
My eyes scan the bar. Seven people are sitting at the bar, four in the back playing pool, and another three at one of the tables in the back. The same one I sat at with Lane and Kam last night.
Behind the bar, Lane is mixing drinks with her back to me. Her hair is pinned back, loose strands curling at her neck.
“I’ll be right with you,” she calls without looking, her hips shimmying to the Carrie Underwood song flowing from the Jukebox.
I slide onto a stool, my eyes glued to her, watching for her reaction. “Take your time, Wildflower.”
Her shoulders stiffen, and she turns her head, green eyes meeting mine.
A flicker of surprise followed by something darker, hungrier flashes through them.
It’s not the apprehension I saw last night or even this morning.
No, it’s something else. Something deeper.
She recovers quickly and turns to finish making the drinks.
She drops them off and walks toward me, an easy smile stretched across her lips. “Do you give nicknames to all your bartenders?”
“Yes. I call my bartender back home, sweetcheeks. He blushes every time.” I give her an exaggerated wink.
She chuckles and playfully shakes her head. “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey.” I nod toward a bottle on the top shelf, which in this town seems to be Jack Daniels, watching as she pours.
She’s wearing a dark purple tank tucked into black high-waisted shorts. The fabric hugs her curves just enough to make it torture.
Fuck. Coming here was definitely a mistake.
Focus.
My eyes latch on to her, once again reading her reactions, keeping my voice light. “Was that Kam’s bookstore I saw you coming out of earlier?”
Her spine stiffens, surprised. She didn’t expect me to bring it up. Not after the way I held her hostage with my stare.
She recovers quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah, I was helping her stock some new books.”
I eye her, wondering just how deep her scars run. It takes years to perfect that mask she so easily slips into place.
She opens her mouth, like she’s going to speak, before quickly closing it and looking away.
I lean back in my seat, relaxed, and take a sip of whiskey to cover my smirk. “Something on your mind?”
She opens her mouth again, but someone down the bar yells her name, grabbing her attention.
She glances back at me, then hurries away.
I watch her as she works, noting the way she leans in to hear her customers. She laughs at something a redheaded woman says. Her smile is wide, eyes bright. Nothing about it is fake.
Nothing about her says “cold-blooded killer”. She’s warm. Real. Unguarded.
Another question pushes its way to the front of my mind. What if Byron wasn’t the loving, devoted husband the police report painted him to be? What if there was something sinister lurking behind his smile?
Or maybe I’m too far gone to see clearly.
One way or another, I don’t plan to stop until I find out the truth.
I toss a few bills on the bar and stand. “Goodnight, Wildflower,” I call out, heading for the door, not waiting for her to respond.
Back at the motel, I pull out the photo of Ceciley, studying it as I lean against the headboard. My thumb traces her face. The eyes in the photo may be the same shade of green as Lane’s, but they don’t hold the same joy for life as hers do. No, Ceciley’s eyes are dull and lifeless.
It’s the same for her smile. They have the same mouth, the same shape and fullness, but the smile isn’t the same. The one in the photo is practiced and doesn’t reach her eyes, unlike Lane’s wide, infectious smile.
How the hell am I going to keep Lane safe if she is Ceciley?
Our client isn’t going to just let this go. He proved that with his vague threat earlier, along with ones in the past.
Until I know for sure I need to stay away. I need to break this pull she has on me.
If I still can.