Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Rose
All I want to do is find my mom. Is that too much to ask? Instead, I am being forced to spend time with Cal.
The one that got away. The one that drives me up a wall.
And now I’ve run into Niko.
The one that broke my heart.
What are the odds, honest to God?!
Cal, of course, looks constipated as I approach him. “Did you find out if we can talk to security?”
“They are getting someone now. It’s late, so who knows what kind of guards work the night shift,” Cal answers, his scrutiny still on my ex.
I turn around, and Niko disappears down the hallway leading to a different set of elevators.
One that will take him to the upper floors where the event center is.
“So, that was Niko?” Cal inquires, curious and, honestly, he sounds a little jealous.
“Yep. That was Niko.” The ex I stupidly jumped into a relationship with because the man standing in front of me rejected me.
Cal leans against the counter. “For an ex, he sure seems overly concerned about you,” he bites out.
I glance back toward where Niko had been standing, a strange feeling curling low in my stomach. I wish I understood what the hell these feelings even are. Everything’s a tangled mess lately. My mom, these men.
“He is,” I say finally, quieter than I mean to. “He always was. Which makes our breakup that much more confusing.”
Cal’s brow lifts. “He didn’t give you a reason?”
I let out a dry laugh that sounds way more bitter than I intend. “Not really. He called me out of the blue one Sunday afternoon right before we were supposed to leave for lunch with my mom and broke it off.”
Cal’s head jerks up. “He broke up with you. Over the phone?”
I nod. His reaction shouldn’t please me as much as it does, but the disgust on his face almost feels … satisfying. But it’s also weird that he’s pretending like he gives a crap.
“Did he at least say why?” he presses.
“That’s the thing,” I say, switching into a mocking imitation of Niko’s voice.
“‘I love you, but I can’t be with you anymore.’” I roll my eyes.
“I think he was cheating. He’d been acting weird for weeks, secretive.
Then—poof.” I shrug, forcing a little laugh that feels like sandpaper in my throat. “I’ll probably never get any answers.”
Cal doesn’t respond right away. When I finally glance at him, he’s studying me, really studying me with that steady, too-serious gaze that always sees too much. My defenses immediately go up.
“What?” I snap, crossing my arms. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asks.
“Like you care,” I shoot back before I can stop myself. Because he doesn’t care. He left me.
“Rose.” My name on his lips is a plea. Not Sheridan. But Rose.
“Okay, Detective,” the hotel clerk breaks our connection. Cal jerks away from me, turning to the employee with his cop personality flipped back on. “The head of nighttime security will meet you down in the basement lobby. Take elevator three down to the ground floor, and he will be there.”
Cop Cal answers. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your time.”
The young lady instantly blushes and then scurries away.
He turns to regard me, soft Cal returning. “You ready for this?”
I nod. “Let’s go.” But am I? Ready?
No.
With his usual swagger and long strides, Cal marches down the lobby toward the elevators. The noise and low conversations of the crowd fill our silence as we walk in tandem.
This hotel is so huge it requires three sets of elevators. Huge brass numbers hang above each one.
Elevator One, the one Niko probably took, leads to the upper event centers and restaurants. Set number two is for the rooms. Number three takes you to the ground floor and parking garage.
Cal pushes the button for Elevator Three, and as we wait, a heavy hush settles around us. The door dings and opens as we step inside, silent. We both turn to face the doors. He presses G for ground.
We stand not talking, descending lower, when Cal finally speaks. “He’s an idiot, Rose.” My eyes snap to him as he continues to look straight ahead. “If I were lucky enough to have a woman like you ...” He never turns to me but continues with a quiet kind of ache. “I would never let you go.”
The doors slides open, leaving me more confused than ever.
But I smile anyway.
A bald man with a full beard, wearing what looks like a mall cop uniform and nearly as tall as Cal, greets us just as the clerk promised. He extends his hand. “Cal Masters?”
Cal takes his hand. “Yes, and this is Rose Sheridan.”
He turns to me, shaking my hand. “Michael Hawkins. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
His lips purse briefly. “Please know I’m so sorry about your mother, Ms. Sheridan. I promise I will do everything I can to help with the investigation.”
I smile. He seems kind and genuine. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
He turns back to Cal. “And please accept my sincerest apologies for the delay in getting the footage. We’ve been having issues with our servers, and there were quite a bit of hoops we needed to jump through.”
Cal tilts his head as a small grin appears, obviously impressed. “Thank you. I’m sure you understand, time is of the essence.”
“I do. So let’s get started. Follow me this way.
” Cal glances at me, lifting his eyebrows.
Mr. Hawkins guides us down a long, narrow hallway that feels like it hasn’t seen sunlight in a century.
It’s tight, musty, and the kind of creepy that makes goosebumps crawl up my neck.
A far cry from the opulence we just left in the lobby.
I fold my arms around myself, shivering as our footsteps echo off the walls.
And when I say long, I mean long. This hallway could give airport terminals a run for their money. Based on the cracked concrete and ancient pipes, you can tell this place has been standing for over a hundred years.
Cal keeps glancing my way, reading my nerves without a word. Somehow, just having him here makes the dark feel a little less cold.
Finally, Mr. Hawkins turns sharply, and the corridor dead-ends into a massive steel door. We nearly walk right into it.
He taps the badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck, and a huge clank and buzz sound. He pushes it open.
A wave of loud, sharp, and organized chaos smacks me in the face the second I step inside. My pulse spikes. This place doesn’t play around. The security here is intense.
Cal and Mr. Hawkins move through it like they belong here, slipping into the room with that easy confidence of people who have worked in this world for years. Meanwhile, I’m rooted to the doorway, wide-eyed and motionless, attempting to take it all in.
Everything’s bigger, louder, and more real than I expected.
I shrink back, very, very out of my depth.
The hum of fluorescent lights and the whoosh of a fan fill the space.
A sterile noise only amplifies the dread tightening and coiling every muscle in my body.
An entire wall of monitors fills the far wall, casting a blue glow.
Mr. Hawkins sits stiffly at a desk in the far corner, his attention immediately focuses on his computer screen, clicking through menus. Cal hovers over him.
I stand unmoving and silent.
“Sheridan, why don’t you pull up a chair?” Cal asks. He turns, no longer feeling my presence at his side. Panic floods his face as he frantically scans the room, searching for me. He finds me still standing at the entrance, a statue in the doorway.
In a flash, he’s right beside me. “Hey, are you okay?” The question comes out soft and caring, and immediately, I relax some.
I look up at his towering, yet peaceful figure. “Yeah, this is … a lot. And overwhelming. Maybe it’s just a sensory overload. I don’t know. I thought I was ready, but now, seeing all of this …”
His hand reaches out, but then he retracts it, clenching his fist. I chastise myself because I really wish he hadn’t. “I’m here every step of the way. If it’s too much, look away. No pressure. I promise.”
An appreciative smile crosses my lips, and I nod. It’s when I finally step forward that his palm, open and wide, rests on my lower back, guiding me.
That touch, that one touch, propels me forward. To my mom.
As soon as we make it to Mr. Hawkins’s desk, Cal gestures to the chair. I sit. He has everything cued up and ready to go. “This is from three nights ago,” Mr. Hawkins mutters, tapping away on the keyboard. “Garage Level A.”
As Cal gets closer to the monitor, his broad frame blocks part of the screen. “Level A is the basement level, correct?” he asks. Mr. Hawkins nods.
Cal, steady and in control, begins barking out commands. “Run it from ten minutes before the timestamp we gave you. But not too fast that we would miss anything.”
The footage flutters, then plays. Rows of concrete pillars stretch across the grainy frame, cars lined like shadows beneath harsh fluorescent lights. For several seconds, nothing moves. My stomach churns, waiting.
And then she’s on the screen.
She appears in the far corner of the monitor, moving fast, her heels clattering against the pavement, slowing her down. Mom is a runner. She would run marathons for kicks and giggles. I’m sure she didn’t expect to be running like this.
She clutches her purse like it’s a lifeline, head jerking side to side, as though she knew, or felt, someone closing in.
My hand trembles, hovering, wanting to touch the screen. Tears threaten to spill over, but I push them down.
“Mom,” I squeak out, inching closer to the screen.
Cal leans into me, only a centimeter, but my body registers it.
Then she disappears, the feed cutting to the same location, yet slightly different.
Seconds later, the screen shutters, and she appears again.
“What was that?” Cal questions.
Mr. Hawkins doesn’t tear his focus from the screen as his hand hovers over the mouse. His eyebrows scrunch together. “I don’t know. It seems like the video was tampered with, maybe. Like I said, server issues. It’s been going on for a couple of weeks.”
“Who would do that?”
Mr. Hawkins shrugs, perplexed. Cal grunts, but I tune them out as I watch Mom break into a desperate run, sprinting past parked cars. A figure appears behind her. Taller, dressed in dark clothing, the face obscured by the hood of a sweatshirt and a ski mask. His pace isn’t frantic, but steady.
Deliberate.
Hunting.
Bile coupled with desperation rises. “Oh, God … oh, God, Cal, he’s following her.”
The feed continues to flip between images. The scene with my mom’s chase and the one without. Cal doesn’t speak, but I feel the shift in his body beside me, coiled up tight. His jaw flexes, focusing on the screen.
“Slow it down,” he barks out with an icy calm.
Mr. Hawkins obeys, adjusting the playback.
The video staggers forward frame by frame.
Mom, frightened and with hair spilling across her face, glances behind her.
In the next frame, her heel catches on the pavement, and she stumbles, palms slapping the ground, before trying to scramble back up unsuccessfully. One of her heels is now broken.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. “She fell—”
“She’s trying to get back up,” Cal reassures me quickly. It’s wild because what I'm seeing on screen, happened three days ago. Watching it now, though, it seems like it’s unfolding in real time.
The man in the hood doesn’t falter. He moves around a pillar, not rushing, not losing ground. He’s a good eight car lengths behind her.
“Zoom in,” Cal orders.
The manager hesitates. “It’ll get blurrier, and with the feed acting up, I don’t—”
“Do it.”
The screen magnifies, edges fuzzing with static. The mask still hides the man’s face, but his posture is unmistakable: shoulders squared, arms swinging loosely at his sides.
Unfazed.
Confident.
Ruthless.
My breaths come in heavier and labored, so I press my palm against the desk, desperate to have something solid to hold on to. “Why isn’t anyone there? Why isn’t anyone around to help her?”
Cal doesn’t answer; his sole focus is the video. I watch helplessly as Mom crawls to a pillar, trying to conceal herself. Then she crouches between two black SUVs, vanishing from view.
Cal points to where my mom disappeared from the screen. “This is where we found the note.” The hooded man slows, tilting his head, scanning. His lips are moving, but the video is silent. He gets closer, weaving through the rows.
My nails dig into my palm. I lean forward, wanting to be closer to her. Wanting to help. But I can’t. “Run, Mom,” I beg. “Please, run.” I know there’s no way she can hear me, but I plead anyway.
And then static.
The picture fractures, a burst of black and snow tearing across the screen.
What the?!
“No!” I screech, slamming my hand on the desk. “Can’t … why … how … what happened?” None of my words forms a sentence.
Mr. Hawkins is already typing, the clicking of the keyboard loud in the silence, but the screen remains dark, unyielding. “That’s … that’s all it recorded. Don’t know why it cut out. It could be our current issues or maybe the system rebooted. It’s been doing that lately.”
My vision blurs with tears. “Rebooted? Are you telling me it conveniently shut off the second my mother ...” I’m ready to crack. “The second she needed someone to see?”
Mr. Hawkins shifts. “Could be a glitch. Power surge. It honestly could have been anything. We have been scrambling to find answers, let me tell you.”
Cal straightens, his presence filling the room. “Or someone made sure the feed went dark,” he states low, deliberate.
I turn to face him. I’m so desperate for someone to understand how I feel. And I know he will. “She was right there, Cal. You saw her. He was right behind her. And then—” The words catch as I press both hands to my face.
Hundreds of scenarios feed my anxiety about what could have happened to her.
None of them are good.
Cal reaches out, hesitates, but thinks better of it, his hands falling to his side.
“We’ll find her,” he says, each word carved in stone. His eyes fly to the blank screen, unblinking, hard with resolve. Then they lock with mine. “I promise.”
“What happens now?” I ask as Cal’s resolve stays steady, and it keeps me from vanishing right along with my mom.
“It’s time to search her room.”