Contents
TITLE PAGE
RIGHTS
Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- EPILOGUE
- 14 WEEKS
- DON'T FORGET!
- ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- STALK HER
367 Days
Jessica Gadziala
Copyright © 2016 Jessica Gadziala
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.
"This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental."
Cover image credit: Shutterstock.com/Victor Tongdee
DEDICATION
This one goes out to Nadre Wiggill.
Because she's awesome.
ONE
Riya- 1 hour
I wasn't crazy.
That was pretty much the only thing I knew for sure as I sat on the stiff emergency room hospital bed on top of the scratchy white sheet, confused, scared, a little frustrated, and not quite like myself. But sane. I was perfectly sound of mind.
That being said, I was pretty sure I was the only one who thought that.
The cops, well, they had taken my statement, but the sheer disinterest in which they did it seemed to imply they thought I was a head case. That detective was who had pointed me toward the hospital in the first place.
The nurse, when I told her my story, lost her soft smile. Her shoulders went a little more square; her back stiffened. She checked my vitals and listened as I spilled what I knew about what happened.
"Okay, Riya," she said, pronouncing it "ree-uh" when it was supposed to be "Ry-uh", but I was too concerned with more pressing issues to correct her. "The doctor will be with you in a moment," she told me as she flipped my chart closed and walked out of my room.
I watched as she walked back to the nurses' station, flipped open my chart, picked up the phone, and called someone.
Not only was I not crazy, I wasn't stupid either.
I knew exactly why she was picking up that phone.
The words: psych evaluation flashed across my head as I pulled the little finger clip that monitored my heartbeat off my finger and slid off the bed.
"Miss. Miss!" the nurse called as I walked out of my little curtain room and made my way toward the door. "Miss, you really need to be seen by the doctor."
"I have the right to refuse treatment," I said, not looking over at her, feeling a small pit of hopelessness settle in my belly. I wasn't sure where I had to turn if the hospital wanted to take me up to the psych ward and keep me there for a couple days.
"Ms. Sweeney," she called, still following me. "Please, you really should..."
"Find someone who believes me," I answered, my voice a little gruff. Actually, my voice sounded a little off in general and my throat was sore. I needed to add that to the long list of things that were wrong.
With that, I walked out onto the street, moving down the small circle of a parking lot toward the dock, where I leaned against the railing and looked at the water. I had stood in that very spot countless times before. I found water comforting.
And right about then, I needed all the comfort I could get.
Because my life had suddenly become some creepy mystery movie. And I was the reluctant, clueless, unexceptional heroine.
I sighed, my breath catching slightly in the cool October air, moving out in a small cloud. Where were you supposed to turn when something was wrong with you and the hospital couldn't, or wouldn't, help?
And the police, used to a ton of off-their-meds people coming in and making fake claims, filing silly reports that wasted their time, yeah, they just lumped me in with the rest of the nutters.
I turned back to walk up the hill toward town. My town. Navesink Bank. It had been my town for most of my teens and adulthood. Again, comforting and familiar.
But it felt oddly different as I walked and walked and walked, having literally no other way to get around and nowhere to be.
It was like some crazy twist of fate that I walked down a side street I wasn't overly familiar with and walked up to a building I had never really needed to take notice of before. It looked like many of the others on the side streets- big, streamlined, modern, with slate gray stucco, a wide staircase up the front that led to sturdy black doors. There were two floors with shiny, tinted windows against the sun.
But there was a sign above the door that stopped me dead in my tracks.
Sawyer Investigations.
See? Fate.
When the hospital wouldn't help you and the police couldn't help you, where was there to turn but a private investigator?
I self-consciously flattened my hair, having no clue what I looked like, as I climbed up the stairs, my leg muscles screaming in objection for reasons I did not understand. Pulling the heavy front door open, my arm muscles did the same.
The reception area of Sawyer Investigations was, well, all male. There was no mistaking when someone hired an interior designer who, in all likelihood, would be a woman, and when someone didn't. Sawyer, whoever he was, didn't. Because every inch of the place was clean lines, stark, and just a tad unwelcoming.
The floors were a dark hardwood. The walls were a gray that matched the outside of the building. And all the furniture, from the rounded reception desk directly ahead to the chairs framing the three walls behind the desk, was black. There was no artwork and no magazines cluttered the coffee table. There was a small coffee station near the hallway that led to the left, a simple black Keurig sitting on top of one of those wire racks that held all the single serving cups. To my right directly inside the front door, was a door to the bathroom and another hallway.
That was it.
The hispanic woman behind the desk was around middle age with a pleasantly rounded body, long straight black hair, and warm brown eyes.
When the door opened, her head popped up, giving me a half-smile. "Can I help you?"
"I, ah, yeah," I said, taking a few steps forward. "Or, at least I think you can. I need a private investigator."
"Well, you're at the right place. We have plenty of those. Can you fill out this sheet?" she asked, handing me a clipboard with a single sheet of paper on it and a pen.
I nodded, pulling it toward me, a bit self-consciously filling out the basic information, putting down things that weren't accurate anymore, but were all I had.
"Okay. I will buzz in and see if anyone can meet with you. Have a seat," she said, gesturing toward the chairs behind her desk.
"Thank you," I said, moving to take a seat in the corner, looking around, taking a couple deep breaths to try to calm my nerves, trying to stay focused.
It wouldn't do me any good to freak out. Even if I had a truly valid reason to do
so. That would have to wait until I could find some way, any way to get some answers.
"Ms. Sweeney," the woman said, and I jerked, looking to see her standing near the Keurig, holding an arm out like I should follow. "You're in luck. Mr. Anderson himself has a couple free minutes to sit with you. Right this way."
I forced a small smile and followed behind her as we walked down the gray hallway toward a black door that said Sawyer on it.
She knocked twice and a clipped, "Send her in, Marg," was called from the other side.
"It's okay," she said, giving me a knowing smile. "He doesn't bite."
With that, she opened the door for me and I moved to step inside so she could close it again.
Sawyer Anderson's office was much like the rest of his building. The floors were the same hardwood. The walls were the same gray. His desk and chair were black. The massive built-in shelves to either side of the room were also black, full of books and files. But everything was neat, in order.
And Sawyer Anderson himself? Yeah. Well. I didn't know what I was expecting, maybe some portly ex-cop who had too much spirit to retire.
I hadn't been expecting the man in front of me.
He was tall. He was standing facing half-away from me, looking out the window with my paperwork in his hand. He was strong, but in a lean, compact kind of way, not so big that he couldn't put his arms down. Not for show. His strength was the kind that was utilized. His hair was a medium-deep brown, neat, neither short or shaggy. His face was carved by one of the masters- all strong jaw, a straight, almost perfect nose, stern brows, and slightly indented cheekbones. His eyes, when they snapped to me, were a deep, gorgeous green.
Even dressed in simple jeans and a black tee, he was almost insanely good looking.
"Ms. Sweeney," he greeted, his voice deep, masculine, the kind of sexy that made a woman shiver.
"Riya," I corrected.
He nodded at that, waving at the chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat," he invited and I moved forward to do so. "What can I do for you?"
I took a deep breath. "This is a little crazy," I warned.
"I tend to specialize in crazy."
"You're kind of my last resort," I admitted.
"That's always nice to hear," he quipped, voice a little bland.
I exhaled slowly, preparing myself for what I thought was an inevitable laugh or snort or declaration that I was off my rocker.
"Here's what I know," I started, something in my tone making Sawyer stiffen a bit, his head tilting, listening. "My name is Riya Sweeney. I live on Maple Street. Or, I did. My parents died when I was twenty-two. I worked in the local fertility clinic. One year and two days ago, I walked out of my apartment to go to work at seven-thirty in the morning. I stopped to get a cup of coffee. And, well, that's it."
"That's it?" he prompted.
"That's it. That's all I remember. I lost a year and two days of my life."
"Okay," he said, brows drawing together. "I am going to need more than that. I don't think I need to tell you that that sounds like some crazy shit."
Some crazy shit.
Yeah, that about covered it.
"This morning, sometime around ten, I woke up laying on the ground behind a dumpster near the docks by Famiglia. I got up and... everything hurts. I'm sore everywhere," I admitted, feeling a wave of emotion well up and trying to push it back down. I took a deep breath and went on. "Obviously, I was confused so I walked up the street because the restaurant wasn't open yet and no one was around. I got to the convenience store and, I don't know why, but I looked down at the newspapers in the stack and... and it's a year an two days from my last memory."
Sawyer sat back in his chair, running a hand down his jaw that was slightly scruffy, "Alright..." he said, clearly thinking I was crazy. "Have you gone to..."
"Great," I said, standing, feeling the tears sting at my eyes and not wanting to cry in front of anyone, let alone a hot stranger. "Wonderful. I should have known you'd think I was crazy too."
I moved to start toward the door and flew back on a yelp when he had somehow stepped between me and it, blocking my escape. "Babe, didn't say you were crazy. I mean, for all the fuck I know... you are. But I didn't say that. I was actually going to ask if you went to get checked out. You need to know why you're sore. You need to have an exam. And you need to have a rape kit run."
I shocked back at those words, feeling everything inside me turn cold.
I mean, of course, that was where my mind went at first. No woman wakes up disoriented and sore and thinks she maybe went to a Zumba class and then just so happened to fall asleep behind a damn dumpster. They always thought the worst. Because it usually was the worst.
"I went," I said, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "But, um, the nurse thought I was crazy. She was going to call for a psych evaluation. I left and came here."
"And you won't go back?"
"I'm not crazy!" I snapped.
A completely inappropriate smile tugged at his lips at my outburst before he nodded at me. "Okay. Fine. Look. I can't take your case on until you've been checked out. I don't give a fuck if you don't like that, it's how this has to go. So you can go to the hospital and risk a forty-eight hour hold," I opened my mouth to object, but he went on before I could, "or I can call in a nurse I know to look you over here and only report back to me."
I swallowed hard and nodded. "Okay. That sounds alright."
"Alright," he said, moving away from me toward his desk, hitting the intercom on his phone. "Marg, can you bring Ms. Sweeney back to the exam room?" he called and before he was even done speaking, I could hear her heels in the hall.
Exam room?
He had an exam room?
Why the hell did a private investigator have a exam room?
The door opened behind me as I watched Sawyer pick up the phone. "Hey Lo. I need to borrow Ashley for a couple hours," he said as Marg touched my arm, drawing my attention.
"Come on, honey," she said, giving me a maternal smile. "Let's get you into the exam room so you can settle down."
Settle down.
Yeah, I was pretty sure as I was led into a very small room at the end of the hall with a small exam table with paper on it, a cabinet that, I imagined, housed supplies, a sink, and a rolling stool, and handed a gown to change into, that settling down was not something I was going to be doing.
TWO
Sawyer
I really didn't need any more cases to work on. I had just barely closed one on a missing wife who actually wasn't missing but was tired of her lazy ass husband who hadn't fucked her right in fifteen years and decided to run off with another man and start over. But I had ten others sitting in my desk and needing my attention.
That being said, when Marg wrote a note on the paperwork saying she thought I needed to give this Riya woman the time of day, I decided to go ahead and do it. Marg wasn't usually in the business of telling me my business, which was why she worked as my secretary. So if she said I needed to see her, I needed to see her.
The second I looked at her, I figured maybe Marg was trying to play matchmaker or some shit like that. She was constantly dropping hints about me getting too old to not have a good woman to come home to.
Because Riya Sweeney, yeah, she was a fucking knockout.
She was on the tallish side, five-seven or so in flat feet and she was all leg. Her long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, putting her gorgeous face on perfect display. There was an exoticness to her that was nondescript, hard to place. It could have been part Indian or part Native American or Romanian or even just Italian. She had a somewhat square jaw with wide, full lips, thicker and strong brows, and almost see-through light brown eyes.
Fucking stunning.
But as soon as she stepped in, I started to think Marg had less matchmaking on the mind and more helping the damsel in distress.
Because Riya Sweeney had haunted eyes, stiff movements, and seemed like she was ready to bolt at any moment.
>
Then she started talking, the voice smooth and just a touch husky, either because she just naturally had a bedroom voice or maybe she was getting a cold.
And then I found out that not only was she beautiful, but she might very well be bat shit fucking crazy.
Which was wonderful. Just what I needed.
The way she reacted to me thinking she was crazy was either a testament to the fact that she was, seeing as crazy people hated being called crazy just about as much as junkies hated being called junkies. Or, it was possibly the testament of a sound mind in a confusing situation in desperate need for answers.
So, maybe perhaps a bit against my better judgment, I called Hailstorm and had Lo send down one of her nurses. Ashley was an ex-army nurse, battlefield trained and cool under any situation. She would come down, check the girl out, look for injuries, do a rape kit, and run some blood work.
From there, I could decide if I was actually taking the case or not.
"Pretty girl," Tig, one of my men, said as I walked out of my office toward the reception area. Tig was a giant of a man, six and a half feet with shoulders so wide he practically needed to turn sideways to get through some doors. He had a rich, deep mahogany skin and light brown eyes. He was a wall of muscle, with a slight beer gut that in no way slowed him down from chasing down some scumbag or landing whatever skirt he set his eyes to.
"Yeah," I agreed, reaching for the file Marg left on the desk.
"Got a look in her eye I don't like seeing there," he said, the big fucking softie. Looked like he had fights with concrete walls in his spare time, and won, but the fuck had a big, soft heart, especially when it came to the fairer sex.
I nodded. "Ashley is coming to check her out. Says she lost a year of her life. The last thing she remembers was going to get coffee before work on October third. Of last year."
Tig's head cocked to the side, brows drawing together. "Seriously?"
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