Chapter 21
Ziggy's report on Daniel Bellafonte is thicker than any report so far. Mack tosses it onto the dining table that evening. I frown when it lands with a thump.
"Apparently your brother's old roommate is an interesting guy," he says. Mack looks truly grim for the first time--lines bracket his mouth. "He's got some friends that I hope to never meet."
My eyes latch onto the paperwork like it might come to life and attack. Though I've been wanting answers this whole time, I'm scared of what might be in there. What if I find out that I don't know Alex at all?
A heavy hand lands gently on my shoulder. I look up to find Mack looking at me, his expression full of compassion. "It's going to be ok, Gabriella."
"How do you know that?"
He gives a little smile. "I haven't run up against anything that's killed me yet. And neither have you."
I take a deep breath and nod. "Have you read it?"
He shakes his head. "Not all of it. Ziggy's program is wild--it gives a great summary of activity and relationships it sees, though."
"What does the summary say?"
"Daniel Bellafonte is involved with some really bad guys--some Albanians connected to a small group in West Texas who smuggle stuff across the border and disperse it throughout the U.S."
I gasp. "Drugs?"
He shakes his head. "Guns."
"Oh, shit." I blink in horror. I suddenly feel winded.
Mack pulls out a chair and guides me into it.
"I'm not going to faint," I say. But there's no getting around how shaky my voice sounds.
"Of course not." He grins. "I just thought you'd be more comfortable sitting."
He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with two Diet Cokes. He pops the top on one and sets it in front of me.
"Thank you."
"Welcome." He takes the chair next to mine and slides the report in front of him.
"To be honest, I feel a little out of my depth on this one. I wanted to check with you first, of course, but I think it’s time to loop in my boss, Dylan.
He owns Haven Security and he's one of my best friends.
He's a great guy, and I trust him with my life. "
"You don't think he'd tip off the cops or the parole board?" I ask faintly.
"No." Mack shifts in his chair. I get the impression that what he's about to say has him feeling a bit uncomfortable.
"I don't know a lot about how Haven Security works, but I do know that they're some of the best. You might not expect that from such a small town, but they get pulled into international stuff.
They're discreet, expensive, and very good at what they do. "
"So what would this guy Dylan even do?" I push my hair out my eyes and take a sip of my soda. The chilled bubbles help center me a little bit, help make things feel more normal.
"I don't know, to be perfectly honest. Dylan owns Haven Security, but he doesn't spend a lot of time there. He has a team that runs things."
"I probably couldn't afford them." I stare at the wall, trying to remember exactly how much is in my retirement savings, as of the last statement.
"I'm more interested in hearing what they have to say. Besides, they do a few pro bono cases every year. I think they're due."
"I couldn't ask them to--"
"You aren't," he says. "I am. I just want your permission on this. It's your brother."
I think about it for several moments, but what am I going to say? No? If these guys can help find Alex, or even find out what happened to him, and all it will cost is a little of my pride, there's no way I'm going to say no.
"And that's what you would do?" I finally ask.
Mack nods. "I trust all those guys. Because Dylan does."
"Ok," I say.
Mack pats my hand, takes a long sip of his soda, picks up his phone, stands, and walks out the door into the backyard.
I decide to use his distraction as a chance to go grab my suitcase of underwear from the trunk of my car.
I’ve been meaning to put it in the house ever since those guys showed up.
I haven't really wanted to go out at night, and my undies situation has gotten a bit weird.
I’m holding my Grandma’s old beige suitcase in one hand, slamming Goldie’s trunk with the other when Mack comes through the garden gate. Stupidly, I try and hide the suitcase behind my back, my eyes wide.
I realize a half a second later that I could have just come up with a good excuse, a smooth lie, but my initial reaction has ruined that hope completely.
Mack’s eyes narrow slightly. “What are you doing?”
“Just grabbing some stuff from my car.”
He studies me for a few moments, then frowns. “What aren't you telling me, Gabriella? What’s in the suitcase?”
“Nothing.” But my answer sounds guilty, even to me.
Mack’s frown deepens. “Is something to do with Alex? Do you have what those guys were looking for?”
“What?” I rear back in real surprise. “No, of course not.”
“Then did you get a ransom note?” He raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms over his chest. “Look, I can't help you if I don't have all the information.”
“It’s not what you think,” I say, my cheeks heating. “It’s…it’s my underwear.”
“What?” He cocks his head. “Your underwear?”
“I usually keep it in my trunk and grab a clean pair when I need one, but I haven’t wanted to run out into the driveway at night lately, so I thought I’d bring it back inside…”
I trail off lamely, as Mack’s eyes slide--just for an instant--to my crotch. He whips them back to my eyes immediately, but I’m scared he’s going to ask if I’m going commando. I’m not, thank goodness, but the reality is hardly better. I’m wearing a pair of bikini bottoms.
Of course, the question he does ask might be worse. “Why do you keep your underwear in your trunk?”
“Uh…” I chew my bottom lip and decide how truthful to be.
I swear Mack sees it on my face. His eyes narrow even as he waits.
“Because of Mr. Franklin,” I finally say in a small voice.
“Your brother’s parole officer?” His eyebrows raise, he studies me some more. For some stupid reason, I still have the suitcase behind my back. Mack’s voice is deceptively light when he asks, “Gabriella, what does Mr. Franklin have to do with where you store your underwear?”
“Uh.” I take a deep breath and ignore the embarrassed stinging in my eyes. “He um, he looks through my underwear drawer?”
For some reason, it comes out as a squeaky question, like I’m asking Mack how that could possibly be true.
“What?” Mack’s shoulders roll back, his head tilts.
I give a nervous laugh. “It’s no big deal. I just don’t like it, so I started storing fake underwear in my drawer and my real underwear in the trunk of my car.”
Mack stares at me; something dark flashes in his eyes that has me wincing.
But then he grins and says, “I don't know which I want to see more--your fake underwear, or your real ones.”