by Sophie Lark
Trust as the essence of love.
It doesn’t sound romantic, not on the surface.
But it makes sense, especially in our world. Any gangster knows that your friends can put a bullet in your back just as easily as your enemies—even easier, in fact.
Trust is rarer than love.
It’s putting your fate, your happiness, your life in someone’s hands. Hoping they keep it safe.
My phone vibrates again.
“Give me a minute,” I say to my father, stepping out into the hall to take the call.
“I saw her for a second,” Jack says. “She was at a restaurant with some guy. He gave her something, a little box. She put it in her bag.”
“Who was the guy?” I ask, mouth dry and hand clenched tight around the phone.
“I don’t know,” Jack says apologetically. “I only saw the back of his head. He had dark hair.”
“Was it Castle?”
“I don’t know. They were sitting on the patio. I went into the restaurant—I was going to try to get a table so I could get closer and listen in. But while I was inside, they left. And I haven’t been able to find her again.”
“Where’s her car?” I demand.
“Well, that’s the weird thing,” I can hear Jack breathing heavy, like he’s walking and talking at the same time. “The Jeep is still in the same parking lot. But Aida’s gone.”
She must have left with the guy.
FUCK!
My heart is racing, and I feel sick.
Is she with him right now?
Where are they going?
“Keep looking for her,” I bark into the phone.
“I will,” Jack says. “There’s just one other thing . . .”
“What?”
“I found a shoe.”
I’m about to explode and Jack isn’t making any sense.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I say.
“There was a sneaker in the parking lot, over by the Jeep. It’s a woman’s shoe, Converse slip-on, size eight, cream-colored. The left foot.”
I wrack my brains, trying to remember what Aida was wearing when she stepped into the Jeep. A lavender-colored crop top. Jean shorts. Bare legs. And then, down on her feet . . . sneakers, as usual. The kind you can slip on without tying the laces. White or cream, I’m almost certain.
“Stay there,” I say into the phone. “Stay by the Jeep. Keep the shoe.”
I hang up the phone, hurrying back into the office.
“I’ve got to go,” I say to my father. “Do you mind if I take the car?”
“Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll take a cab back to the house.”
I hurry down to the main level again, my mind racing.
What the fuck is going on here? Who was Aida meeting? And how did she lose a shoe?
As I drive to meet Jack, I try calling Aida again and again. Her phone rings, but she doesn’t pick up.
The fourth time I call, it goes straight to voicemail without even ringing. Which means her phone is switched off.
I’m starting to get worried.
Maybe I’m a fool and Aida is shacked up in some hotel room right now, ripping the clothes off some other man.
But I don’t think so.
I know what the evidence looks like, but I just don’t believe it. I don’t think she’s cheating on me.
I think she’s in trouble.
25
Aida
I’m sitting across the table from my new best friend, Jeremy Parker. He passes me the little box I’ve been waiting and hoping for all week long, and I open the lid to peek inside.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe it,” I breathe.
“I know,” he laughs. “This was the hardest one I’ve ever done. Took me three whole days.”
“You’re a miracle worker. Honestly.”
He grins, almost as gleeful as I am.
“You mind if I put the whole thing up on my YouTube channel?” he says. “I was wearing my GoPro the whole time, got some great footage.”
“Of course!” I say.
I close the box, still hardly believing what I’m holding in my hand, and I stow it back in my purse. I give Jeremy a slim envelope of cash in return—the amount we agreed upon, plus a bonus for saving my fucking ass.
“Well, call me if you ever need me again,” he says, giving me a little salute.
“I hope I won’t need you,” I laugh. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he chuckles.
He raises his hand to signal for the waitress.
“I already paid for the meals,” I tell him.
“Oh, thanks! You didn’t have to.”
“It was the least I could do.”
“Alright, I’m off then.”
He gives me a wave and leaves through the restaurant. I cut straight through the patio, then cross the street, because that’s the quickest route to the lot where I left the Jeep.
I feel like my feet are barely touching the sidewalk.
This is so fucking fantastic, it’s got to be some kind of sign. A bona fide miracle.
It’s a gorgeous day, too. Sun beaming down, the tiniest breeze blowing in off the lake, the clouds so puffy and uniform that they look like a child’s painting.
I’m so excited to see Cal. I felt bad not going to see his new office, but this couldn’t wait. I couldn’t chance something else going wrong. He won’t be mad about it when he sees what I’ve got.
Nessa’s Jeep looks brilliantly white in the sunshine. I washed it and filled it up with gas on the way over, as a thank-you to Nessa for letting me borrow it so many times. I even vacuumed the seats and threw away all her empty water bottles.
Still, the Jeep is outshone by the car parked next to it. A very familiar car.
I stop mid-stride, frowning.
I don’t see anyone around. Probably the best thing to do is get in the Jeep and drive away as quickly as possible.
As soon as my fingers touch the door handle, I feel something hard and sharp poke between my ribs.
“Hey baby girl,” a deep voice whispers in my ear.
I stand perfectly still, running through my options in my mind.
Fight. Run. Scream. Try to dial my phone.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, just don’t,” he growls. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice as casual as possible.
“You’ll be getting in my car.”
“Alright.”
“In the trunk.”
Fuck.
I’m cooperating because it seems like the best option right now—the one most likely to keep him calm.
But I’ve got to do something.
He presses the button on his key fob, popping open the trunk.
I try to glance around without him noticing. The lot is jumbled and half-empty. There’s nobody in the immediate vicinity to see me being stuffed into the back of the car.
So I do the only thing I can think of. I slip off one of my sneakers, the left one. As I sit down in the open trunk, I flip my foot to kick the shoe off under the Jeep. Then I bring my knees up and hide the barefoot under me, so he won’t notice.
“Lay down,” he says. “I don’t want to hit your head.”
I do as he says. He slams the trunk shut, closing me up in the darkness.
26
Callum
I’m standing in front of Nessa’s Jeep, turning the sneaker over and over in my hand.
It’s Aida’s, I’m sure of it.
How did she lose her shoe?
It’s been over an hour since Jack lost sight of her, but she hasn’t come back to the Jeep. I’ve called her phone twenty times. It keeps going straight to voicemail.
Dante and Nero pull up in a vintage Mustang. They jump out of the car, not bothering to close their doors after them.
“Where was she?” Dante says at once.
“At that restaurant over there,” I point to the patio on the far
side of the street. “She was meeting a friend. After they ate, she disappeared.”
“What friend?” Dante asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
He gives me a strange look.
“Maybe she left with the mystery friend,” Nero says.
“Maybe,” I agree. “But she lost a shoe.”
I hold it up so they can look at it. They obviously recognize it, because Nero frowns, and Dante starts looking around like Aida might have dropped something else.
“That’s weird,” Nero says.
“Yeah, it is,” I agree. “That’s why I called you.”
“You think the Butcher took her?” Dante says, his voice low and rumbling.
“Why the fuck are we standing here, then!” Nero says. He looks like a current just ran through his body. He’s agitated, spoiling for action.
“I don’t know if it was Zajac,” I say.
“Who else could it be?” Dante frowns.
“Well . . .” it sounds insane, but I’ve got to say it. “It could be Oliver Castle.”
“Ollie?” Nero scoffs, eyebrows so high that they’re lost under his hair. “Not fucking likely.”
“Why not?”
“For one, he’s a little bitch. For two, Aida’s done with him,” Nero says.
Even under the circumstances, his words give me a glow of happiness. If Aida still had feelings for her ex, her brothers would know.
“I didn’t say she went with him. I said he could have taken her,” I say.
“What makes you think that?” Dante asks, scowling.
“The shoe,” I hold it up. “I think she left it as a sign. Based off something she said to me once.”
Oliver and I didn’t fit together. Like a shoe on the wrong foot.
It sounds crazy, I realize that. I don’t have to look at her brother’s faces to know they’re not convinced.
“Anything’s possible,” Dante says. “But we need to focus on the biggest danger first, which is Zajac.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Nero says.
“So?”
“So that means the Butcher is visiting his girlfriend.”
“Assuming he stuck to his normal schedule and isn’t taking a night off to murder our sister,” Dante says, grimly.
“Aida’s friend gave us the address,” I say. “Assuming she was telling the truth. She did drug us right after . . .”
“I’ll go to the apartment,” Dante says. “Nero, you can check Zajac’s pawn stores and chop shops. Cal—”
“I’m going to look for Castle,” I say.
I can tell Dante thinks that’s a waste of time. He glances over at Jack, his expression wary. He suspects that I sent Jack to follow Aida. He thinks I’m jealous and irrational.
He might be right.
But I can’t shake the feeling that Aida was trying to tell me something with this shoe.
“I’m going to Castle’s apartment,” I say firmly.
But then I pause, really trying to think this through. Oliver lives in a high-rise in the middle of the city. Would he kidnap Aida and take her there? One scream and his neighbors would call the cops.
“Jack, you go to his apartment,” I say, changing my mind. “I’m going to check a different place.”
“Everybody, stay in contact,” Dante says. “Keep trying to call Aida, too. As soon as someone finds her, let the others know, and we’ll all go in together.”
We all nod in agreement.
But I know right now, if I find Aida, I’m not waiting a moment for anybody else. I’m going to go in and get my wife back.
“Here, take my car,” I say to Dante, throwing him the keys. “I’ll take the Jeep.”
Dante and Nero split off, and Jack heads back to his truck. I climb up into the Jeep, smelling the familiar, feminine scent of my little sister—vanilla, lilac, lemon. And then, fainter but perfectly clear, the cinnamon spice scent of Aida herself.
I leave the city, heading south on Highway 90. I hope I’m not making a horrible mistake. The place I’m going is over an hour away. If I’m wrong, I’ll be too far away from wherever Aida actually is to help her. But I feel propelled in this direction, pulled by an invisible magnet.
Aida is calling to me.
She left me a sign.
Oliver Castle took her, I know it.
And I think I know exactly where he’s headed—the little beach house that Henry Castle just sold. The one that Oliver loved. The one that’s completely empty right now, without anyone around.
27
Aida
I wouldn’t have gotten in the fucking trunk if I knew how far Oliver was going to drive. I feel like I’ve been in here forever. Also, I drank a lot of water with lunch, and I really have to pee. Also, I’m worried about what Oliver might have done with my purse. He wasn’t stupid enough to put it in here with me, unfortunately. I’m anxious that he just chucked it out of the window or something, which means that my precious little package is already missing again.
For a long time, I can feel that we’re on the freeway – smooth, steady progress in the same direction. Eventually, we turn off and start driving slowly and erratically down roads that are obviously narrower and less well-maintained. A couple of times the car jolts hard enough that I do hit my head on the top of the trunk.
I’ve been hunting around in the dark, looking for anything useful. If there was a tire iron back here, I’d use it to brain Oliver the second he opened the trunk.
At last the car slows down. I think we’ve arrived at wherever the hell we were going. I haven’t found any weapons, but that’s not going to hold me back. I wait, crouched and ready, for Oliver to pop the trunk.
The tires crunch over gravel and roll to a stop. I hear the car door opening, and I feel the suspension lift as Oliver removes his considerable bulk from the front seat. Then I hear him walking around to the back of the car.
The trunk pops open.
Even though the sun is going down, the light is still brilliant compared to the darkness of the trunk. My eyes are dazzled. Still, I kick out with both feet, as hard as I can, right toward Oliver’s crotch.
He jumps backward, my feet barely making contact with his thigh. Those goddamned athlete reflexes.
“So predictable, Aida,” he sighs. “Always fighting.”
He grabs my foot and yanks me halfway out of the trunk. He pauses when he notices the lack of a sneaker on one foot.
“What happened to your shoe?” he says.
“How should I know?” I say. “I was busy being kidnapped and stuffed in a trunk. You better not have lost my purse, too.”
“I didn’t,” Oliver says.
He lets go of my foot and I stand up, looking around.
We’re parked in front of a little blue beach house. The water is only a hundred yards away, across smooth, cream-colored sand. The house is bracketed by thick stands of trees on both sides, but the view down to the water is clear from the back.
I’ve never been here before. Still, I know exactly where we are. Oliver talked about it all the time. It’s his family’s cabin.
He wanted to bring me here. We’d been to another cabin, right on the edge of Indiana Dunes State Park. That was the night Oliver was talking about at the fundraiser—when I wore the white bikini and we had sex out on the sand.
Apparently, he thinks that was some magical night. To me, it was cold and uncomfortable, and I got a shit-ton of mosquito bites.
Now we’re back here, this time at the Castle residence. Oliver came here as a child. He said it was the only time he got to see his parents for more than ten minutes in a row. Which is sad, but not sad enough to make me forget the kidnapping part.
“What do you think?” Oliver says, his expression hopeful.
“It’s, uh . . . exactly how you described,” I say.
“I know!” Oliver says happily, ignoring my lack of enthusiasm.
“Don’t forget my purse,” I tell him.
He opens the driver’s side
door again, so he can retrieve my purse from the front seat.
The moment he leans over, I sprint away from him, running down toward the water.
It would have been easier to run to the road, but then he’d find me in two seconds. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to hide somewhere in the trees or the dunes.
As soon as my feet hit the sand, I realize what a stupid plan this was. I don’t run at all, let alone through soft, mushy sand. It’s like a nightmare where you sprint as hard as you can, yet you barely move.
Meanwhile Oliver used to run the forty in 4.55. He may have put on a few pounds since his glory days, but when he puts his head down and pumps his arms, he still charges through the sand like a linebacker.
He tackles me so hard that it knocks every last molecule of oxygen out of my lungs. They’re so deflated that I can only make a horrible gagging sound before I can finally drag in a sweet breath of air.
My head is pounding. I’m covered in sand, it’s in my hair and in my mouth. And worst of all, in my cast, which is gonna drive me fucking bonkers.
Oliver is already on his feet again, watching me with pitiless eyes.
“I don’t know why you do this to yourself, Aida,” he says. “You’re so self-destructive.”
I want to tell him that I didn’t fucking tackle myself, but I’m barely breathing, let alone able to speak.
While I’m gasping and gagging, Oliver rummages through my purse. He finds my phone. Kneeling down on the sand, he picks up a rock the size of his fist and smashes the screen. His face is red with effort, the muscles straining on his arm and shoulder. My phone practically explodes under the rock, while Oliver keeps hitting it again and again.
Then he picks up the broken metal and glass, and he flings it into the water.
“Was that really necessary?” I ask him once I’ve recovered my breath.
“I don’t want anyone tracking you,” he says.