Page 89 of Our Elliana

“Hello, there,” she says pleasantly enough. “May I ask who you’re here to visit?”

“Uh...” Damn, I should’ve had some sort of plausible plan at the ready. I don’t, though, so I decide to make one up as I go along. “I’d like to see Tanya Brubaker. She around?”

I examine the lady’s face—it’s barely wrinkled despite the pure whiteness of her hair—and try to determine if she might be hiding something. But she’s not so much as glancing at me. Instead, she frowns at her computer monitor with pursed lips.

“I’m sorry, but no one by that name is a patient here. Might you have the wrong address?”

Why, yes. Yes, I might.

“You sure? I heard she worked here.”

Now she narrows her eyes at me.

“No member of staff by that name works here,” she states, but there’s something shadowy behind the lady’s gaze. She knew Tanya. I’d bet dollars to donuts. “There are other mental health hospitals and clinics in the area, however.”

I notice she doesn’t offer one up as a diversion. But I’m pressing my luck doing this. Pushing too much could draw security or worse, alert local law enforcement. If word ever got back to Ruiz, he could even press charges against us for fucking up his investigation.

We can’t do anything to assist Elle from a jail cell.

“I must be mistaken.” I throw her my most blandly cordial expression. “Thanks anyway.”

I leap back into Noah’s truck to discover that Jackson’s off scouting out the vehicles in the adjacent parking lot. Luckily, he’s clever enough to not go gallivanting so close to them that it raises any eyebrows. Rather he chooses to access the sidewalk outlining the lot which gives the appearance of someone cruising along for fresh air or exercise.

I take back everything I said about his lack of subtlety and stealth.

“Detect anything?” Noah inquires the second Jackson returns, but the guitarist shakes his head.

“Three orangish vehicles, but none of them are the one we’re looking for.”

Goddammit.

I wanted this trip to provide us with a solid lead, not be a fucking waste of resources. We’re glum as hell as Noah steers us back to D.C. proper. This little excursion of ours just took up three hours of our time, and as of an hour ago, the sun went down.

Where does that woman have Elle? And what might she be doing to her?

Unfortunately, sitting in a truck as someone else drives provides me with endless minutes to think, and those thoughts go down a dark spiral of increasingly horrific possibilities.

I’m still so angry at Elliana for her decision to get rid of us. I love her all the way to my bone marrow yet know under different circumstances, I’d still have the need to make my displeasure with her known. But remembering that the last words she might ever hear from me were spoken in fury and disappointment makes me want to hurl.

What am I going to do if I never see her again?

A prickling sensation stings behind my nose and tightens my throat at the thought. Would the universe consent to being this callous and uncaring? Allow me to actually give a damn about a woman only to steal her away?

Why have me develop feelings of devotion for someone, build a family with someone—an irritating in-law type of family in Jackson’s case—only to yank it all out from under me like some threadbare rug?

So I won’t let what’s trying to get out of me escape I haul off and with an almighty war cry slam my fist into Noah’s dashboard. It’s probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done and makes my knuckles ache and sting like a son of a bitch, but it’s preferable to falling the fuck apart.

I prepare myself to hear Jackson mouth off from the backseat of the crew cab or for Noah to shoot me a dirty look for conceivably denting his ride—I didn’t, I don’t think—but neither of them speak. Other than a wary glance from the kid, they don’t so much as peek in my direction.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to calm my shit down. Going to pieces right now won’t help Elle.

I mutter an apology to Noah, then like I often do, return to keeping my own counsel.

He’s just taken the exit that will lead us back home when he comes to a screeching, gravel-spewing halt on the side of the road. It’s so abrupt and violent that my seatbelt engages. Jackson’s must’ve, too, because he grunts out a complaint.

“What the fuck, dude?”

But in the light of a passing vehicle, I notice that Noah is goggling back and forth between us, wide-eyed.

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