Chapter Two #2
“I hadn’t paid him for the week yet. On Friday, I was supposed to pay him, but I had a plumbing emergency at the house.
When the plumber fixed my sink, I called Matthew at the café to tell him I’d be in to pay him, but he told me not to worry about it.
We were both working the next day, so he said I could do it then, but he was gone Saturday morning.
Why not wait one more day? Hell, I’d told him I would come in.
If he’d planned to leave, why not just let me bring him his money?
If you were going to leave town for destinations unknown, wouldn’t you want your last week’s pay? ”
Dylan makes a valid point. If Fraiser left of his own accord, he would no doubt have waited for his money, especially if his exit had been planned.
But he might have left out of necessity.
If he felt threatened, if there’d been something or someone who’d come into his world unexpectedly, he could have bolted, leaving behind his things, his phone and even his pay.
But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s missing.
“Did you explain that to the police?” I ask.
He shrugs. “They weren’t impressed. I’m really worried about him.”
A dry chuckle escapes before I can stop myself. The irony is just too much for me to ignore. “Yeah, it kind of sucks when someone disappears and you’re left wondering if they’re alive or dead.”
Well, so much for being professional and treating him like any new client. Because I sure as shit wouldn’t have spoken to a client that way.
Dylan’s eyes widen, red creeps into his face, and he shifts in his seat like he doesn’t know what to do next. Finally, he grips both arms of the chair and pushes himself to his feet. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have come here. I’ll—”
“No,” I say quickly, waving him back into his chair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was a cheap shot.”
He smirks and sinks back into the chair. “You’re not wrong, though.”
“I have to ask you, why did you come to me with this?” The question has been burning in the back of my mind since I found him waiting in the lobby.
He opens his mouth to answer me, but hesitates, moistening his lips as if choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know any other private investigators.”
Well, that’s not flattering. However, I don’t know what I expected him to say. “You don’t know me. Not anymore.”
His throat jumps when he swallows. “I just thought you might take me seriously, that you would actually look for him.” He shrugs again. “I can pay you. I’m not looking for a freebie or a deal, or anything. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
I haven’t even thought about money at this point. I’m not even sure there’s a real case here, or if I’ll take it, and given what I just said, moving Dylan on would probably be for the best.
“I’m not sure how much help I can give you.
” Dylan deflates in front of me, and for a minute, guilt burrows into my gut.
I bristle. What the hell do I have to feel guilty about?
Dylan has come out of the woodwork after ten years.
The last time I saw him, he dumped my ass with no explanation.
Now he shows up? And to help him find some other guy, who, let’s be real, he’s probably fucking.
Why else would he care so much? Still, I squash down all my righteous indignation and try to be professional again.
“I think there are a lot of reasons he might have left the way he did, and none of them mean he’s missing. ”
“You agree with the police.”
Yeah, I do, but I don’t tell him that. “I can check into him, see if I can find evidence of where he is now. Do you have a copy of any of his identification?”
Dylan shakes his head, and I shoot him a ‘seriously?’ look. “He was your tenant.”
“I told you, we didn’t have a formal lease or anything. I was letting him stay there until he figured out his next move.”
“What about a Social Security number?”
The red already staining his cheekbones deepens. “I was paying him in cash.”
I lean back in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose. What the hell? He can’t be serious. I lean forward again, reach for my pen—then stop. Instead of writing, I point it at Dylan. “You had this man working for and living in a property you own, and you didn’t look into his background at all?”
“He was in trouble. I didn’t want to spook him. I wanted him to feel safe.”
It costs me everything not to roll my eyes. “You’re assuming a lot. You don’t know he’s a victim. Those bruises around his neck could have been defensive wounds; someone fighting him off.”
Dylan shakes his head. “That’s not who Matthew is.”
“You don’t know who Matthew is.” Dylan hadn’t known this guy for more than two months, and he had let him work in his café while living above it without taking even the most basic precautions to protect himself.
I think of the Dylan I knew ten years ago.
He’d only been seventeen then, and I’d been eighteen.
We’d both been precariously balanced between youth and adulthood, the future stretching before us like a gleaming golden road of possibility.
We’d both been too naive to know that the gold was peeling away, and the road beneath was just dull concrete.
The same future of compromise and have-to, just like everyone else’s, was all that waited for us.
Back then, Dylan had been guarded and cynical, and I’d been the trusting one, the one who believed the best of everyone. Somewhere over the last ten years, we swapped roles.
“Do you have a picture?”
“Yeah, but it’s not great.”
He slips his phone from his jeans’ pocket, scrolls, then turns the screen to me.
The picture is a selfie of Dylan and a middle-aged woman with thick red hair.
They’re both grinning, and while Dylan still looks the same, older, of course—don’t we all—but I’d never seen him look so light and content back when I’d known him.
In the background, a young man is watching the pair taking the photo with an amused, almost reluctant smile pulling at his mouth.
He looks younger than twenty-three and a little like Dylan from back when I knew him.
If they were sleeping together, this had to be the ultimate expression of narcissism I’d ever seen.
“That’s Hannah,” Dylan says. I don’t know why he feels like he has to explain. “She works for me. Her daughter, Kelley, used to rent the apartment over the café. She started university back in January. We were sending the picture to her. That’s Matthew in the background.”
“Can you text me this?” I pluck a business card from the metal container at the corner of my desk and hand it to him. “My cell is on there.”
He nods and sends the photo, his thumbs tapping across the screen.
“I’ll look into him to see if I can track down where he went after leaving you.
If I find him, what do you want to do?” I ask.
What if this is a breakup and Dylan just can’t take the hint?
The Dylan I knew had never been the kind of person not to let go after a breakup.
Hell, the Dylan I knew did the dumping. But I couldn’t picture the Dylan I knew posing to take a goofy selfie to send to some woman’s daughter, either.
Proof, I guess, that the Dylan I knew no longer existed—or maybe I never really knew him at all.
Both possibilities leave me with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Mostly, I just want to make sure he’s okay,” Dylan says.
“If he doesn’t want you to contact him?”
He frowns and looks up from his phone at the same time mine chimes. Most likely, the photo he sent. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t, but that’s fine. I just want to make sure he’s safe, and if he is, I owe him money. I guess I could pass that through you?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” I tell him. “I’ll look into him for you and tell you what I find.”
“Thank you, Hunter.” The tension gripping him loosens, and his smile is wide and genuine. “I know it’s a lot for me to ask, with everything—”
“It’s fine,” I cut him off. His gratitude makes me uncomfortable, and I don’t want him to bring up our past and make everything even more awkward than it already is. “Whatever I find out, I’ll be in touch.”
That’s a lie. Whatever I find, I’ll turn it over to one of my business partners, then back the fuck away. After today, I won’t see him again.
I walk him out to the lobby and stand next to Helene’s desk while he leaves, doing my best to ignore the ache in my chest as I watch him go.