by Tia Louise
Guy. They have to be searching for Guy. He’s the only one I haven’t been able to find, and he was arguably the leader. He had more power than Gavin. He was the one who hurt Lara, who had me beaten almost to death when I tried to save her. A wince passes through me at the memory.
“Fitz?” I blink up to see Donovan leaning forward on his desk. “You still with me?”
“Yes, I was just remembering some information. I’m sorry.”
He grins and nods. “I like it when my men are passionate about the cases they work on. It means they’re more likely to get results.”
“So you’ll approve the trip?”
He nods. “Keep in touch, keep your expenses to a minimum. Let me know what you find but don’t cross any jurisdictional lines. You’re officially traveling to see your kid. This isn’t your case down there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roland plays at a popular piano bar a few blocks northwest of where the theater used to be. He’s halfway through a raucous version of “Piano Man” with the entire drunken crowd singing along when I enter the dim-lit room.
It’s a smaller bar off the main building with dark-wood paneling on the walls and vintage furnishings. Small tables are scattered throughout with the piano on an elevated stage in the center.
An enormous fishbowl is placed at the side of the piano, and patrons walk forward and drop napkins in it constantly. I check my watch. It’s five minutes until two a.m., which makes this the last song of the night.
All the tables are full, so I stroll across the red-brick breezeway separating the smaller bar from the open-air patio out back. A large fountain is in the center, and the tone is quieter, more relaxed.
“May I take your order?” A waitress wearing a uniform of dark green shorts and a white shirt with a green bow tie waits expectantly.
“I’m just meeting someone, thanks.”
She nods and continues on, and I realize this part of the establishment is open all night. Leaning against the black wrought-iron fence, I wait for the final strains of the Billy Joel classic to end and the cheering to die down.
Twenty more minutes pass before the place has almost completely cleared out, and I step inside to see Roland disappearing through a side door.
“Shit,” I hiss, pushing aside chairs to cross the room before the door slams shut.
I’m too late. It closes in my face, and I have to run through the brick courtyard again, pushing my way through a mob of drunk tourists milling about.
“Watch it!” A man shouts, but I keep going, down the half-block to Toulouse Street.
I skid around the corner, my shoes slipping on the damp flagstone, but I see him far ahead, walking fast. My heart pounds. I’m sure he didn’t see me in the bar—it was too dark and crowded—and I know I can find him tomorrow, but I can’t help believing he’s leading me to Lara. My desire to see her drives me forward.
He walks two more blocks north before stopping abruptly in front of an older home. It’s nicely renovated, and as he passes through the wrought iron gate, I realize it’s a duplex.
Voices erupt from inside the moment he opens the door, but he quickly shuts it behind him. I walk down to the corner to wait, unsure if this is his home or someone else’s.
Another half-hour passes before a silver Accord with a pink Lyft sticker in the window pulls up to the curb. The door of the house opens, and Roland steps out with a girl I recognize. It’s Evie. I’m more convinced than ever Lara has to be inside.
“See you tomorrow,” she calls, and they embrace briefly before she trots down to the waiting vehicle.
Once she’s gone, I’m through the gate and up the steps to his narrow front porch in record time. My insides hum, and I take a few steadying breaths before I knock. They’re here. Lara, my daughter…
Swallowing the knot in my throat, I raise my hand and bang on the solid wood. The noise of footsteps from inside approaches the door.
“Did you forget something?” He calls, opening the door and freezing. “Mark.”
All the rage I’ve suppressed for ninety long days breaks to the surface, and it takes an indescribable force of will not to grab him by the neck. When I was here before, we were the same size. Now I’m quite a bit larger than this guy… this guy who’s been helping to hide my wife and child from me, a baby I’ve never even seen.
“Where is she?” It comes out as more of a growl than a question.
To my surprise, he doesn’t even hesitate. Stepping back, he waves his hand in a sweeping motion, allowing me entrance. “Right this way.”
I’m on his heels as he leads me through the narrow house. He stops at a door, which he opens slowly, carefully. I push him aside and enter the closet-sized room.
A lamp in the shape of a large tree with little animals circling at the bottom casts a soft yellow light, and I have to duck slightly to avoid banging my head on the doorjamb.
“What is this?” I’m confused until I see the crib against the wall. My mouth goes dry, and my heart beats painfully harder with each step.
The scent of baby powder is in the air, and when I look over the white rail, my breath disappears. Inside is a tiny body wrapped tightly in a pink blanket. Her head is covered in a halo of light brown hair. My sight goes blurry, and I reach up to push the wetness aside.
“You can pick her up if you’d like,” Roland says from where he’s waiting at the door. “She’s a pretty solid sleeper.”
The anger, the driving desperation, all of it melts as I stand looking down at my baby girl’s sleeping body.
“I don’t know how.” My voice is quiet.
A shuffling behind me, and Roland is at the side of the crib reaching in to lift her gently. Her little face scrunches in a frown, but he puts her on my chest, her forehead touching my neck, and the last shred of my fight disappears.
“Mark Fitzhugh, meet your daughter, Jillian.”
I cup her body in my hands, and hold her against my heart. My eyes close, listening to her breathing, feeling her warmth through my shirt. She’s here… soft, angelic, tiny, and so real.
When I can speak again, I blink over to see Roland touching his eyes. He smiles, and I wonder why I hated this guy so much all those years ago.
“She’s so little,” I whisper.
“She’s actually right at the seventieth percentile for size and weight.”
“I don’t know what that means.” Her face moves, and she makes a little grunting noise. Another piece of my heart melts.
Roland’s eyes are soft as he touches her back. “It means she’s perfect.”
Fuck, he didn’t have to tell me that. My hand cradles the back of her head, and I lower her gently. I want to study her little face and see all the ways she looks like me, all the ways she looks like her mother.
“I never knew babies could be so small.” Smiling down, I look at her pixie nose, her rosebud lips… I want her to open her eyes so I can see if they’re blue.
“She’s grown quite a bit,” he says. “You’re coming in at the good part. She’s making eye contact and smiling. Three months is the magic time.”
The magic time was all of it. The pregnancy itself, when she was born. I’d wanted to be there for every moment stolen from me. From us. My stomach tightens, and I glance up at him. “Where’s Lara?”
“Come into the living room.” He ducks out the door, and I follow him, walking slowly as if my footsteps might disturb Jillian.
I scan the wood-paneled room. Leather furnishings are arranged in a way that divides the living area from a compact dining area. The kitchen is through a wide, open doorway in the back. Two doors are to my left, and I assume they lead to bedrooms.
“Is she here?”
Roland sits on the edge of a leather armchair, leaning forward. “Sit on the couch, and we can talk.”
I stop in the center of the room and study him. The house is quiet, and I don’t understand. “Where is she?”
“She left this morning.”
“
Left? Where did she go? Why did she leave the baby with you?” The questions pour out, but as quickly as they form, I know the answers. “She’s doing it again.”
“Sit.” He motions to the couch, but I can’t sit down. My pulse is racing, and holding my daughter has changed everything.
“Okay, don’t sit.” Roland clears his throat and looks at his hands. “I need to fill in the blanks so you’ll understand what’s happening.”
“I think I know what you’re going to say.” Lifting Jilly so her head is against my chest, something shifts inside me in a way I never expected. “Molly was raped, and now Lara feels it’s her duty to help her pursue this vigilante justice.”
His eyebrows rise. “She told you that?”
“I was with her on the train when they found their last… victim.” I’m not even sure what to call those bastards anymore.
Jilly’s head moves, and she emits another little baby sound. I’m already imagining her saying her first words, learning to walk, ride a bike… I remember when Molly was just a sweet kid. I accused Lara of treating her as if she were her daughter.
Putting to words, speaking out loud what happened to Molly provokes a desire for vengeance in me I didn’t have ten minutes ago. I can’t even think of someone hurting Jillian the way Molly was hurt. I don’t know the level of brutality I would inflict upon the man who tried. And in Molly’s case, it was four men.
“They’re going after Guy.” As I say it, my muscles tense. “It’s why she left the baby with you. Molly found him… You have to tell me where they went. It’s not safe.”
“They’re not going after Guy.”
His words pull me up short. “What?”
He shifts in the chair, and I can tell by his body language there’s more to the story I don’t know. “Guy is dead. He died in the fire.”
“There’s no record of his death. I searched all the reports. I searched everywhere—”
“You worked for Gavin. You know he could keep things out of the news.”
“Still, there would have been a police report…”
Dark eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head slowly. “He called in a favor.”
Landry. Gavin had that corrupt cop in his pocket. “But why?”
Roland shrugs. “He didn’t want the publicity. Didn’t want the investigation…”
“So it was foul play.” I’m not surprised by this. “Perhaps he was able to keep the official record sealed, but there is still a record that should include cause of death.”
“Maybe… I never looked.”
My brow furrows, and I sit down on the couch. Jillian snuggles against my chest, and I smooth my hand over her little back as I recall the list of names. “If Guy is dead, Esterhaus should have been the last one.”
“He should have been.”
“I don’t understand.”
When Roland’s eyes mine, they’re serious. “They’re going after Gavin.”
I’m on my feet before he’s even finished speaking. “We have to go after them. Now.”
Holding Jillian in one hand, I dig for my phone with the other. She starts to fuss, and Roland stands to take her from me.
“How long ago did they leave? Where are they?”
“Seattle. They left this morning. She texted me her hotel and the room number in case I needed to reach her.”
His words hurt more than all the kicks to the stomach I took that night so long ago when I tried to save her. “She won’t reply to any of my calls or texts.”
Roland’s chin drops. “She blocked your number.”
Shit, I take it back. That hurts more.
Clearing my throat, I continue typing on my phone. “I’m getting two plane tickets from New Orleans to Seattle. Grab your things. You’re coming with me.”
“I have to work. Besides, Lara would kill me if I brought Jillian out there.”
“And I’m not leaving the two of you here like sitting ducks.” Our eyes clash and for a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Instead, he exhales and starts down the hall.
“I didn’t want her going alone in the first place.”
“I’m calling a Lyft. We leave in ten minutes.”
4
Never water yourself down because someone can’t handle you at 100 proof.
Lara
Capitol Hill reminds me of uptown New Orleans at night.
Molly walks beside me on Pine Street, dressed in opaque black tights and a bright, royal-blue mini-dress. Her long hair, normally bleached white these days, is dyed silver, and she’s wearing a black cardigan zipped closed.
By contrast, I’m in dark jeans, a black tee, and a modified khaki trench coat. True to its reputation, Seattle started out sunny and warm when we arrived this morning at noon. Now it’s chilly and drizzling.
“He’ll recognize me right away,” I say under my breath as we approach the bar on Thomas Street.
“I told you to cut your hair. Or at least change the color.” She’s impatient. She’s always impatient now, and it’s gotten worse since Jilly was born.
“I want him to recognize me.” I want him to know it’s me confronting him.
We weave through the young people dressed in ripped tights or bold, black and white striped blazers. A fellow in a maroon jacket with black lapels coasts up beside Molly.
“You’re new around here,” he says, and I press my lips together, waiting for the backlash.
Molly stops walking at once and turns to him. “What makes you say that?”
The fellow grins, and his eyes roam up and down her slender frame. I give him credit—he only hesitates a moment on her full bosom.
“I know all the beautiful girls in Cap Hill,” he continues. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“Maybe you have, and you don’t remember.” She’s flirting, which puts me on guard.
Normally she shuts men down immediately with a biting insult. The fact she’s toying with him makes me wonder what she’s up to.
“I’d remember.”
We continue walking. His hands are shoved in the front pockets of his tight black jeans, and he scuffs beside her in a pair of enormous combat boots.
She pushes a long silver curl behind her ear and blinks at him. “What’s your name?”
“Joshua.”
Hearts are in his eyes, and I pull out my phone. I pretend to check my messages, but the truth is, I only message Roland and Evie. I had to block Mark’s number, which broke my heart, but not nearly as much as the texts he kept sending.
Don’t do this…
Come back to me…
I love you…
My eyes squeeze shut against the pain.
“Joshua.” Molly says his name as if testing it on her tongue. “I’m Maggie and this is my cousin Lucy.”
“Maggie May,” he spreads his arms wide.
“Umm, sure.” Molly’s brow lowers, and I know she doesn’t get the reference. “So you’ve always lived in Cap Hill?”
He nods his bright orange head. “Born and raised.”
“Do you know the guy who owns the bar Montage?”
“Brisbee?” Josh scrubs long fingers through his sparse beard.
“I-I’m not sure…” Molly and I exchange a glance. “Is he a big guy with sort of reddish hair?”
“That’s him.” Joshua brightens with recognition. “He moved here about eight years ago? Dates Kevin—”
“Wait,” I cut him off. “You said he dates Kevin. Is Kevin a guy?”
“That’s right, beautiful.” Joshua turns his charm on me. “I can take you to meet him if you want.”
We both stop, and the young man stops with us. “We’re just looking for the owner of Montage,” Molly says. “I thought he was named something different. Do you know where he moved here from?”
“New Orleans. It’s the theme of the bar. Everybody knows Brisbee.”
“Why is that?” she asks.
Josh shrugs. “He takes in runaways, helps them find jobs.”
&n
bsp; Molly and I exchange a look. I’m not sure what to make of this new information. “Is he there every night?” I ask.
Joshua frowns at me, and I can tell our questions are making him suspicious.
“What are you? Bill collectors?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Long lost wife?”
Another no.
“Long lost kid?”
Negative.
“Undercover cops?”
“We’re just old friends,” Molly interrupts us. “We’re from New Orleans, and we need to tell him… his brother died.”
We’re walking, and I frown at her behind our jovial guide’s back. Gavin already knows that. She dismisses me.
Joshua’s voice turns solemn. “That’s too bad. I’m not close friends with the guy, but nobody needs to hear that. I’ll introduce you if he’s there.”
We follow Joshua up the semi-crowded street, past brightly lit cafes where hipsters are eating corn dogs.
“I want a corn dog,” Molly says almost if from a dream.
“Unicorn has the best corn dogs,” Joshua says. “I recommend the poutine dog.”
She blinks up at him and smiles. “You’re nice.”
“Don’t fall for it, kid.” He elbows her arm. “I’m just trying to get in your pants.”
I’m surprised when she bursts out laughing. Molly’s smiles have all but disappeared since we left the theater, her laughter is even more scarce. Whoever this guy is, he’s doing something right.
“Here we are!” We stop in front of a storefront painted like a carnival.
The exterior is a mixture of Pepto-Bismol pink, turquoise blue, and gold metallic fleur de lis, and the sign is a literal montage of bottle caps spelling out the name. It’s jam-packed with patrons, and Molly’s all set to charge inside.
“Wait.” I grab her arm. My insides recoil, and I’m not sure I’m ready to confront Gavin this way. All the memories of being in that theater, being one step above a prisoner, doing what he said, being trapped…
“What?” Molly frowns at me, and Joshua steps up beside her.
“You look like you’re going to be sick,” he says.