Claimed by Creed

Chapter 1

Nova

Idon’t want to be here, and it’s not only because of the circumstance that has me sitting in the Pine Ridge police station on an early spring morning.

I don’t want to be here because of the look I’m getting from the detective sitting across from me, painfully tapping out the report.

He was nice enough when I first came in, but I could tell the moment he realized who I am.

Now, he’s not seeing me as an exhausted and worried sister who hasn’t slept in three days. He doesn’t see reddish-brown hair that hasn’t been washed or the dark circles under my eyes. All he sees is the child of a convict and an alcoholic.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see spots of color.

“You said you last saw her on Tuesday night?” He rubs one thick finger under his nose and sniffs before picking up his mug and taking a slurp of his coffee. Detective Mason probably wishes he was anywhere but here. He has the look of a man mentally counting down the days until retirement.

“Friday night,” I repeat, pinching the top of my nose, like that’s going to help with the headache I’ve had for the past twenty-four hours. “And I’ve already checked hospitals, the morgue, and her friends. No sign of her anywhere.”

He sighs and leans back in his chair, making it creak. “Look, she’s an adult. She probably just met some guy and went on a bender.”

“Layla doesn’t drink.” I know exactly why he thinks it and a sliver of anger pushes through my exhaustion. “Not like that. We’re not like our mom.”

“Maybe she’s taking more after your father.”

His snide tone has my spine stiffening.

He continues, “Sixteen to life for armed robbery. How long’s it been since you’ve seen him?”

I shake my head, the sinking of my stomach confirming for me what I knew when I decided to file a missing person’s report. Because of my parents, they weren’t going to take my concern seriously. They’re going to think ‘like mother, like daughter.’

“Are you even going to file this?” I ask.

Detective Mason looks bored instead of insulted. “I’ll do my job, but I’ll be honest, Miss Reed, your sister isn’t going to be top of the pile.”

I’m too tired to be grateful for the honesty. “Do you need anything else from me?”

He takes a sandwich out of his drawer while he answers me, “No.”

I’m dismissed and I feel it down to my bones.

I brush the sleeve of my sweater across my cheeks because I can’t tell if I’m crying, and I suddenly realize it’s the same sweater I put on some time yesterday.

Coffee churns in my stomach and I try to remember the last time I ate.

If any of the cops I pass notice how upset I am, no one does anything about it.

I step outside and have to pause to let my eyes adjust. The sun is too bright for my mood.

I’ve been running on caffeine and adrenaline for too long and my brain is sluggish as I try to figure out what to do next.

The breeze is light and fresh, proof that spring is finally here.

I open my eyes and see the mountains in the distance, the same as I have every day of my twenty-four years.

For the first time in my life, I don’t take the time to think how beautiful it is.

I’m in my car without remembering how I got there and I reach for the last concentrated energy drink I keep in my console.

I down it and then grimace at the taste, but it’s worth it when life starts returning to my body.

I start driving without a clear end in mind, but it doesn’t take me long to realize I’m driving to Layla’s apartment.

Not our apartment, but the one she moved into six months ago, wanting to be free of her mothering big sister. She didn’t say that, of course, but I know it’s a part of why she wanted space. I basically raised her, even when Dad was still home, and once he was gone, it was pretty much all on me.

The apartment isn’t in the best part of the city, but it’s not the worst either, which is the only reason I didn’t freak out when Layla told me about it.

I came here right after Layla didn’t answer my texts and everything looks the same as I pull into the guest parking spot right next to Layla’s beat-up old Buick Skylark.

I have no idea how she kept it running, but last I knew, it worked fine, so there’s no reason for it to be there unless Layla didn’t need it.

The cops just said there are plenty of ways to get around the city without a car.

A roar cuts into my thoughts as I walk toward the front door of the building.

I don’t need to turn my head toward the noise to know it’s a motorcycle.

Pine Ridge is a tourist town where the mountains are the biggest attraction, but there’s also a bunch of great roads that bikers enjoy.

Some of them are weekend warriors, but even I can tell the bike that’s disappeared around the bend in the road belongs to one of the serious bikers.

One of the Kings of Ruin, the local motorcycle club.

I push them from my mind as I go into the apartment building and up the stairs to the second floor where Layla’s apartment is.

For a moment, when I push the door open, I think she’s going to be there, sitting on that ridiculous yellow pouf chair she found at some thrift store.

But the place is as empty as it was when I came here the other day.

Her favorite jacket, with all of its insane pins, hangs in the same place next to her purse.

I know if I go into her bathroom, her makeup bag will be there.

Everything she would have taken on a trip is here.

And the cops still think she’s just off on her own.

I take a deep breath to steady myself. I know how to handle emergencies.

I don’t panic. I get things done, and right now, Layla needs me to do that for her.

If the police aren’t going to take things seriously and do a real investigation, I will, and the first step is to look for clues.

Before, I looked for Layla, a note, signs of a struggle, that sort of thing.

Now, I’m looking for anything out of place or any clue of where she could be.

I search the same way I used to for Mom’s booze until I realized it didn’t matter if I threw it out because she just bought more.

I check the pockets of Layla’s jacket and then go through her purse, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

Moving on, I go through everything, paying attention to every detail.

I find change under the couch cushions, along with a disgusting amount of food crumbs, and I learn that the potted plant at the front window is fake, but still nothing helpful.

I’m not sure how long it takes for me to search the living room, but when I’m done, I move over to the kitchen area and do the same thing.

Her fridge has food in it, some that’ll go bad soon, and to me, that’s more proof that my sister didn’t plan to leave.

We don’t waste food. But I know it won’t mean anything to the cops.

Stepping into Layla’s bedroom is harder than I imagined, but I’ve made myself do harder things in my life.

I feel a little like I’m snooping, but having Layla show up to yell at me for invading her privacy would be great right now.

If any of her clothes are missing, I can’t tell, but our grandmother’s locket and Layla’s favorite pair of earrings are on her dresser.

By the time I finish, I’ve found a half-eaten Pop-Tart, one of my hoodies, and a calendar with half-naked firefighters on it.

The men aren’t what catch my attention though.

It’s the calendar that has ‘D’ written on various days over the past three months.

As I rack my brains over what—or who—D is, I suddenly remember something from my childhood.

Kids of addicts learn young not to leave anything valuable anywhere the addict can get to it. If it’s money, they’ll take it. If it’s sellable, they’ll sell it. So we make hiding places. And I know where Layla hides the things she doesn’t want anyone else to know about.

I go down on my knees and peer under the bed. It’s dusty and dim under there, but I can see something within arm’s reach taped to the underside of the bed.

“Layla, if a giant spider bites me, I’m going to kick your ass when I find you,” I mutter.

My hand closes around something hard and as I pull my arm back, I realize it’s a phone.

Not the new phone Layla showed me a few weeks ago, but her old one.

I sit up and lean back on the bed as I open the phone, thankful Layla uses the same code on everything and hasn’t switched to fingerprint or face ID.

The first place I go to is her text messages and I’m surprised to see it’s empty.

Not a single text. This is a huge red flag.

Layla never clears out all of her messages.

I move on to her call history and find that she’s been using this phone even after she got the new one, but only when communicating with two numbers.

One labeled ‘D’ and the other says ‘Ruin’s Roadhouse’.

I stare at the name like it’s going to magically change, and then I go over to the contacts and, sure enough, there’s the name again. Ruin’s Roadhouse. Everyone in Pine Ridge knows the biker bar near the highway is tied to Kings of Ruin… and it should be avoided at all costs.

What the hell has my sister gotten into?

D is in here too, but there’s no other information for them, just a letter.

The cops might be able to find out more running the number, but I think it’ll be a burner phone.

A dead end. There is one thing I can do to try to figure out who D is and I press the ‘call’ button before I can second guess myself.

It goes straight to voicemail.

“Dammit!” I close my eyes and rest the cool glass of the screen against my forehead for a second.

I’m ready to give in and take the phone to the cops when a thought pops into my head.

Something I’ve seen Layla do when she has something important to say but wants to make sure she doesn’t accidentally send a text before she has the wording perfect.

I open up the notepad app and, sure enough, there’s the start of a message.

Damien, are you

Three words, but it gives me something I can work with.

Damien.

I have a name, and since I also have a place, that’s my next stop.

Layla wouldn’t have gotten involved with the Kings of Ruin on her own.

That’s the sort of connection that only comes through another person, and my gut tells me Damien is that person.

It might be foolish, and it might be difficult, but I plan on speaking to the president of the club, no matter what it takes.

Before I leave the apartment, however, I have a call to make. My mom answers right before the phone sends me to voicemail.

“Yeah?”

“Mom, it’s me.”

“Layla?” Her voice is a lazy slur. It doesn’t surprise me that she’s drunk already. She probably hasn’t been sober since I called her three days ago to ask if she saw Layla.

“No, Mom. Nova.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and then the unmistakable sound of a drink being taken. “You find her?”

“I’m guessing that means you haven’t heard from her either?” I ask.

“No.” Mom sniffles. “Baby’s gone.”

She’s really drunk. “Mom, has Layla mentioned anyone named D or Damien?”

Mom mumbles something I can’t quite make out.

“I need you to pay attention,” I say sharply. “D or Damien. Do either of those sound familiar?”

“Nope.”

A hiccup and another sniffle make me think she’s crying, but I quit being careful about her emotions years ago.

“What about Ruin’s Roadhouse or the Kings of Ruin?”

“Roon? What’s roon?”

I feel the last of my patience slipping away. “The motorcycle club, Mom. Has Layla said anything about them to you?”

Mom starts talking really fast, her words slurring together too much for me to catch more than a few words here and there. It doesn’t matter if I can’t get it all. I understand enough to know Layla never talked to our mom about any of this. It was a long shot, but one I knew I had to take.

“I gotta go,” I cut in. “I’ll let you know when I find Layla.”

I end the call without waiting for a response because Mom can drag out phone calls for hours when she really gets going on a rant or a guilt trip. Usually both. I still don’t get up. There’s one more person to call.

Uncle Marty takes a couple of rings to answer. “Hey, Nova. Have you heard from Layla yet?”

He sounds a little distracted, but there’s still more warmth in his voice than my mom ever had talking to me.

I feel the familiar reassurance and safety that’s always come with talking to Uncle Marty.

He’s always been there for Layla and me, and some of the weight lifts from my shoulders at the reminder I don’t have to do this alone.

“The police weren’t any help,” I start. He listens as I spill out everything, not speaking until I reach the end.

“The police might be useless, but it sounds like they just need more proof,” he says.

“Don’t stop looking, of course, and I’ll reach out to some of my connections, see if anyone’s heard anything.

But I think you should give the police the phone.

It probably is a dead end, but maybe you’ll get lucky. ”

I almost remind him that luck doesn’t run in our family, but I don’t say it. He’s going to help and that’s all that matters. We exchange a few more words before we say goodbye and I get off the phone feeling hopeful for the first time in days.

Hopeful… and determined.

I’m not going to sit around and wait for Uncle Marty to hear something or wait for the cops to get off their asses. I have a lead and I’m going to follow it. It’s probably a bad idea, but I’m going to go to the Kings of Ruin clubhouse and not leave until I find out what they know.