by M. Leighton
I frown. “A significant other?” I’m confused.
“Yes. Wife, girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
“No, but why would that matter?”
“Just wondering if I’m likely to run into an angry lover along the way.”
“What?” And then it dawns on me what he must think. “No! God no! It’s not like that.”
“No? Then how is it?”
“This guy is older.”
Jasper raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, I don’t judge.”
“No, no, I mean . . . He—he’s not that kind of a friend.”
He watches me wordlessly, neither refuting nor accepting my explanation. “I’ll need some information, of course. A place to start.”
“Okay. Whatever you need.”
He glances around. “Is now a good time?”
As much as parts of me would like to, I can’t hide in the back forever. Melanie probably still has no idea I’m gone. “Well . . . not really. Can we, uh, can we meet after work?”
Jasper glances down at a chunky black watch. It looks like something a Navy SEAL or someone like that would wear, something that tells time in a million countries and can synchronize with a death squad. “I’ve got some things I need to do. Can I come by your apartment later?”
I find myself frowning. Again. “How do you know I live in an apartment?” Jasper gives me a withering look that says, Really? “Oh, right. I’m sure you . . . looked into me first.” On the one hand, the thought makes me feel a tad violated, like my privacy has been compromised. But, perversely, on the other hand I find it a little thrilling to think that he might’ve been by my place, that he might’ve watched me from afar. Were my blinds not fully closed? Did he see me eating breakfast or getting dressed?
I shiver in response. That’s twisted, but no more twisted than the way I’m reacting to the mere thought of being stalked by the likes of him.
I doubt that’s the case anyway, what with all that information being obtainable via the Internet, but still . . . it’s possible.
“Tonight then?” he prompts.
“Oh, uh, yeah. That would be fine. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll see you later, then.”
I give him a tight, cool smile, anything to belie the jittery, anxious, excited feeling that’s jumping from synapse to synapse.
I watch Jasper as he walks away, noting everything from the liquid way he moves to the way the light gleams off his short, inky-black hair. My entire being seems to slump when he disappears from sight, the absence of him bringing an empty chill over me.
I’ve never met someone more stimulating and handsome and intriguing than Jasper King. I’ve never met someone who makes me want to ask so many questions. And I’ve never met someone who makes me feel like I’ll never get any of the answers.
FOUR
Jasper
Lilac. I smell it as I raise my hand to knock on the closed door of her apartment. It’s like a delicate shroud that surrounds her, permeating the air wherever she is. It reminds me of a small town that I traveled through just outside Paris. It had somehow remained untouched by most things modern, a single white thread in an otherwise dingy, yellowed tapestry.
It takes Muse almost two full minutes to answer the door. She flings it open and glares at me, pulling her flamboyant turquoise and pink robe tighter around her waist. She’s angry again. Not only can I see it in her eyes, it’s there in every rigid line of her body as well.
She starts in without preamble. “You’ll have to excuse the way I’m dressed. Silly me, but I just assumed you’d come by at a decent hour.”
“Are you always like this?” I ask.
Another frown. “Like what?”
“So high-strung.”
Her mouth drops open in aggrieved surprise. “I am not high-strung.”
To this, I say nothing. I like that I throw her off yet she still grapples for control. I like that she’s so rigid around me when everything else about her screams that she’s dying to let go. I like that she fights. I like that a lot. And I like her fire. Everything about my life is cold and calculated. Sometimes fire feels good.
“Well, as to your complaint, I can still be decent at this hour, but if you feel the need to be indecent, don’t let me stop you.”
“I didn’t . . . that’s not what I . . . grrrr. Just come in,” she snips, standing to one side of the opening. When I walk past her, I inhale her clean, floral smell. It’s definitely lilac, but there’s a darker, muskier undertone that takes it from innocent to seductive. I can’t imagine a scent more perfectly suiting a woman, suiting this woman, with her brisk mood swings and complete inability to hide what she’s feeling. She’s hot and cold, fire and ice, sexy and wholesome. She couldn’t be any more different than me if she tried, and I find it oddly refreshing. For the most part, people are predictable, but not this woman. I get the feeling she’s anything but predictable.
I wait for her to shut the door and I follow Muse into a cozy living room. The palate of the room is surprisingly bland with its dark hardwoods and grayish furniture, but it makes her use (and obvious love) of color that much more noticeable. From the bold red throw pillows to the various sizes and shapes of vibrant paintings scattered all over her walls, I’d wager that Muse has bled all over this room, right from the bottom of her soul.
I cross to a fireplace that apparently hasn’t worked in some time. The cool cavern of its interior is clean and holds a couple dozen ivory candles rather than wood. But that’s not what draws me. It’s the painting that rests above it, propped on the mantel to lean against the wall.
The piece depicts a tree, one simple tree, but it’s the way the branches list to one side and hang downward that catches my eye. When I look closer, I see that pale yellow raindrops trickle from the dark leaves like tears, falling into puddles on the ground. Those shallow pools reflect a half-full moon suspended in a midnight sky. The image, while stunning in its use of contrasting color and shadow, is poignant and somehow tragic.
I turn to find Muse watching me. She doesn’t look angry anymore; she looks . . . nervous.
“What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll see too much?”
She raises her chin and tries to act nonchalant. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you still feel this way?”
“What way?”
“The way you felt when you painted that?” I ask, nodding toward the mantel.
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open for a tenth of a second before she snaps it shut. “How . . . how did you know that I . . . ?”
“I’m observant.”
“But . . .” She glances at the canvas behind my head as if searching for what gave the artist away. What she probably can’t see, what probably no artist can see, is that she is all over that painting. All over it and all in it.
“Do you?” I prompt, returning to my question.
Her eyes flick back to mine and she shrugs with one shoulder, her toes digging rhythmically into the plush pile of the area rug. “Sometimes.” Her voice is quiet. Small. She looks quickly away from my eyes.
“What made you feel that way?”
“I miss the people I love.” Her eyes make their way back to mine, a ghost of a frown floating across her forehead. “Doesn’t everyone?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “I guess if you have people you love.” Before she can say anything else, I get down to brass tacks. “So, tell me about this man you’re hoping to find.”
She takes a deep breath. Sighs. “His name is Denton Allen Harper. He lives in Treeborn, South Carolina.”
“Job?”
“He’s retired from the military. He consults for some private security firm now and then, but . . .”
“What is his relationship to you?” Her lips thin. She doesn’t want me to ask personal questions. And that only makes me want to ask them even more. “Look, if you want me to find the guy, you need to be honest with me.” When she still hesitates, I add, “It’s not like I’m a co
p or anything, if he’s into something illegal.”
“It’s not that. He’s not a criminal, for God’s sake!” she defends. “He’s a good man.”
“You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure. He—he’s my father.”
I nod. “How long has it been since you’ve talked to him?”
“A month. A month ago Friday.”
“Just a month? I take it that’s unusual.”
“Yes. We have a . . . routine, sort of. We talk once a month, like clockwork.”
“A month ago Friday. Obviously you’ve tried calling over the last five days.” She nods. “You’ve tried his friends, associates, people who might know where he is?”
“Ummm, not really. I mean I can’t really . . . I can’t . . . It’s complicated, but I know that if everything was okay, he’d have been there when I called.”
“Been where? At home? On his cell phone? Where?”
“Where he is when we talk.”
“Which is . . . ?” She doesn’t answer. I study her in silence for two full minutes, long enough to make her fidget uncomfortably. “You realize that the more you keep from me, the less likely it is that I’ll find him.”
“I thought you could find anyone. In fact, didn’t you say you were damn good at it?”
“I did. And I am, but I’m not a psychic. I still need something to go on.”
“And I gave you that. I’m telling you everything I know that might help you find him.”
“Where do you call once a month?”
She breathes out noisily, obviously perturbed. “We use pay phones, but they’re all in different places around Treeborn.” Muse shakes her head, her thick hair teasing her shoulders. “Look, that’s not important. What’s important is that he wasn’t there when I called and he always is. Something is wrong and I want you to find him.”
“Why not just call the police? Place a missing persons report? It’s been long enough.”
“I can’t . . . We . . . That’s just not an option. That’s why I’m hiring you. You do this for a living. You should be able to find him, right?”
I pause. “Yes. I can find him. It just might take me a few days.”
“A few days? Is that all?”
“Yeah, I think so. Doesn’t sound too complicated. That’s after I get there, of course.”
“Which will be . . . when? Will you fly out tomorrow?”
“No, I’ll drive.”
“Drive? You’re going to drive from San Diego to South Carolina?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“I . . . No, I don’t suppose. I’m just . . . surprised is all.”
“Does it matter how I get there?”
“No, not really. It’s just that . . . the thing is, I want to go with you.”
This I wasn’t expecting. Maybe she really is unpredictable. “And why is that? If I need something from you, I can call.”
“Because I need to see him, I need to talk to him. Face-to-face.”
I say nothing for a while. I couldn’t be happier with this turn of events, but, obviously, I can’t let Muse know that. Finally, I speak to lay down some ground rules. “I’ll agree to that on a few conditions.”
She arches one smooth brow. “Which are?”
“I work alone. If I let you tag along, don’t expect me to include you in details, conversations, or sources. Don’t expect me to answer a bunch of questions or explain why I do the things I do. Just trust that I’ll find your father. I’ll find him and I’ll take you to him. If you do that, let me do my job, no questions asked, we won’t have any problems.”
I can tell by the expression in her green-green eyes and the twitch of her full-full lips that she wants to say something. Probably argue. But she won’t. I have the upper hand and she knows it. Normally, she’d probably have a lot to say, but she’s controlling herself for the sake of finding her father.
“Okay. I can do that.” A pause. “What about money? How much do you charge?”
“A thousand-dollar retainer. We can talk about the rest when I find him.”
She blanches a little. “Okay. I . . . That’ll be fine.”
I don’t feel guilty for taking her money. It’s not like I’ll be keeping it.
“Look, I know it’s late. Why don’t you jot down the target’s last known address and telephone number so I can get to work and you can get back to . . .” I glance at what’s playing on the television. “Whatever that is.”
“It’s Dirty Dancing.”
“Am I supposed to know what that is?”
“It’s a classic,” she defends weakly.
“By whose standards?”
“Mine. And every other woman, girl and child who has ever seen it.”
“Whatever you say,” I rejoin mildly. “While you’re at it, I’ll need the make and model of his car and where he spent his last vacation. And the names of any companions he spends time with.”
She nods and turns to leave the room. She stops in the doorway where the hardwoods give way to tile. I assume it’s the entrance to the kitchen. Her sober eyes plead with mine. “Please don’t call him ‘the target.’ He’s the most important person in my life. The only thing I have left in the world.” With that, she disappears around the corner.
And just like that, I feel the first pang of guilt that I’ve had in seven long years.
FIVE
Muse
By seven in the morning, I’m perched on the edge of the couch, watching the street through the filmy black scarves that cover my living room window. I’ve been sitting here for eleven minutes, mainly because I slept very little and have been up since five packing. I had no idea what kind of clothes I might need. I mean will this be like a spy movie where we’ll be sneaking around, all covert and stuff? Will we be visiting questionable biker bars and beating information out of lowlifes? Or is this a case of I watch too much television, our trip will be nothing like that and I’ll spend a lot of time in the car? I don’t know because Jasper didn’t tell me. Big surprise! And I’ve never had to search for someone like this before—or hire someone to search for someone like this either—so I packed a little of everything plus a couple of days’ worth of travel clothes. That’s the one thing I could find out for sure. We’ll be on the road for approximately thirty-six hours. That requires a lot of yoga pants.
My phone rings in my hand. It’s my boss, Miran. I called her to tell her I need some time off. Her return call reminds me that I forgot my charger. I answer as I scramble up the steps to retrieve it. “Hello?”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you in jail? Did you get mugged?” comes the machine gun–like fire of questions.
“Yes, no, no and no,” I reply.
I hear her sigh of relief. “Thank God. It’s too early to be bailing someone out of jail.” I hear the rustle of covers and I can imagine the tiny blonde burrowing back down into the obscenely thick goose down comforter that covers her bed.
“I wouldn’t call so early if it weren’t important, but . . . I hired someone to find the Colonel. And I’m going with him.” I brace myself for her outburst, but it never comes.
Miran knows my father, which is why he sent me here when I had to leave Treeborn. Without giving me a single detail about their relationship, he gave me her phone number and address and told me that he trusted her, then he sent me on my way. But trust works like that for the Colonel. He trusts sparingly, yet when he does, it means something. In fact, it means everything. That’s how I trust him. Implicitly. Without question or hesitation. And that’s how I now trust Miran.
She doesn’t know everything that happened, and she’s never tried to find out. She just took me in because the Colonel asked her to. End of story. But she knows enough to realize that going back to South Carolina is not something I should be doing. My father would kill me and she knows it. Yet she hasn’t said a word.
The line is so quiet, I wonder if she’s hung up or fallen back to sleep. “Miran? Are you there
?”
“You know he’ll be furious.”
“Yes.”
“And you know he’d expect me to stop you.”
“Yes.”
“But I won’t because I love him, too. And if he were my father, I’d do the same thing.”
I smile. I have no doubts she would. Miran is the type who would fight to the death for those she loves. And she’d fight dirty, too. She might be little, but what she lacks in stature she more than makes up for in ferocity. Obviously, she and her daughter are polar opposites. Melanie is two steps up from a slug.
“I appreciate that.”
“Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” I respond. And I mean it. In the short time I’ve known her, Miran has become a bit of a mother figure to me and there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for her.
“Be careful. If something doesn’t feel right, turn tail and haul ass. I know some people. If it gets ugly, you call me.”
I know some people. I shudder to think what kind of people she’d send to help me, people fiercer than she is.
“Okay. I will.” I have no idea how she (or the people she knows) could help me if I get into trouble two thousand miles away, but if it makes her feel better . . .
“Who did you hire, by the way? To find him, I mean. A private investigator or something?”
“No. Actually he’s a bounty hunter. I guess he does stuff like this on the side. He’s a friend of a friend.”
“What’s his name?”
I roll my eyes as I grab my charger from the dresser drawer in my bedroom. Miran thinks she knows everybody. Or at least that she knows everybody worth knowing.
“Jasper King.”
“J—” She barely utters the consonant before she stops abruptly. I hear more rustling followed by Miran’s low voice. “Keep your guard up, Muse, you hear me?”
I frown at the steps as I descend them. Her tone is different, more alert, more sincere. More dire. “I will. There’s no need to worry, Miran. He’s a friend of Tracey’s.”
“That girl wouldn’t know a decent guy if he bit her in the ass.”
“No, but she’s probably known a lot of guys who have bit her in the ass,” I tease with a grin. Tracey likes sex and she likes men. The combination of the two tends to blind her to some of the more important facts, like whether he’s married. Or a criminal.