Page 17 of The Guilty One

“I can’t say that I know about it, Celine. I’m sorry. I wish I did. That’s par for the course in this business. Tate knew how to handle the bad with the good, and I’m sure he made it work. But we both know Tate shouldn’t have been telling you clients’ business, anyway. Maybe it’s a little bit of a gray area we all tend to overlook when it’s harmless, but with all of this going on, I can’t tell you anything legally, even if I wanted to.”

“So you do know something?”

“I didn’t say that.” He checks his Apple Watch, then stands. “I have a meeting coming up that I need to prepare for. Listen, if I hear from Tate, you’ll be the first to know, okay? No one’s praying for his safe return more than we are.” He holds out his arm, gesturing toward the door. I’m half tempted to argue, but we both know I’m not going to get anywhere with his guard up.

Instead, I stand and meet his eyes. “Thanks for all your help, Tim. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he tells me. “You guys are like family. You know that. Our thoughts and prayers are with you all, truly.” With that, he gestures again that I should leave, and I step out of his office just before he shuts the door.

Back in the lobby, I tell Dustin goodbye and head for the elevator, feeling deflated. I thought for sure I’d find something here, but the only thing I’ve learned so far is that the police have already been here, and that from what I can tell, Tate’s week off is his first that I haven’t known about. Either that or his coworkers are protecting him.

Hurried footsteps rush toward me as the elevator door opens, and before I can step inside, I turn around and see Dustin rushing toward me. “You dropped this.” He holds his hand out, and I reach for whatever it is, confused about what I might’ve dropped.

When he hands me a paper clip, my frown deepens.

“He brought his phone in every day,” he says, his voice so low I hardly hear it. “Brought it in and left it in his office. I found it on Monday and thought he forgot it, but then he did the same thing on Tuesday, and I brought it to him. He did it again yesterday, so I realized it was probably on purpose and left it alone.”

“What are you?—”

“You didn’t hear it from me.” He’s backing away before I can ask him to elaborate further. And with that bombshell, he’s gone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TATE

Five Days Before Disappearance

I’m sitting at my desk at work when the email comes in. The article is emailed to me from a bogus, generic email address, and I know enough not to click any links, but the text in the hyperlink catches my eye.

Actually, five words in particular catch my eye.

Bradley Jennings. Dead at 34.

Opening up my search engine, I type in the words. It can’t be real, and yet, it is. What did you do?

The first search result holds the answers I was searching for. Bradley Jennings, a man I once considered a brother, a man who lived less than half a day’s drive away from me and to whom I hadn’t spoken more than a few words in nearly twelve years, is dead.

My heart stalls as I skim the article for details and come up short. The obituary gives a very brief description of the prettier parts of his life but tells nothing of what must’ve been a gruesome death. Images of car crashes flash through my mind, home invasions gone wrong. It must’ve been something awful. He was healthy as far as I knew. Young. He was going to be getting married soon. According to the obituary, he had a fiancée and a stepdaughter-to-be. Together, they had two dogs and a cat. He had a whole life ahead of him, he was finally figuring it all out, and in a split second, it was over. Gone, like sand slipping through your fingers.

Life can be so unnecessarily cruel sometimes.

The vibrating of my phone on the desk causes me to jump, and I nearly fall out of my chair. Checking the phone screen, I see the familiar words.

Unknown Caller

Before I answer, I hurry across the office and shut my door. If I ignore him, he’ll just call back. I grab the phone and swipe my thumb across the screen.

“Hello?”

“Did you get it?” His warm, gravelly voice is an unwelcome intrusion. More than that, it’s not the voice I expected to hear.

“Yes. I saw. Why are you calling me?”

“You know why.”

I swallow. “I don’t, actually. I was expecting?—”

“I’m assuming he called you, too?”

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