Page 125 of The Kiss of Deception

With her gone, so is the bigger part of me.

I slept on the sofa.

Actually, I didn’t sleep at all.

I spent the night on the sofa in the very same spot from which I always sit and stare at her.

Unmoving except for my eyes. Splitting my staring between the screen and the doorway. Listening for the rumble of her Jeep and to the mechanical chorus of her voicemail until it, too, tired of me and switched to informing me the box was full.

The longer it wouldn’t ring, the more I wanted to smash it into the wall. Time and time again, out of sheer willpower, I’d refrained.

Zoe wouldn’t be able to contact a broken phone.

But why hadn’t she yet? Why hadn’t she given me any proof of life? Why would she leave like that and just… stay away?

She should be here, shouting and screaming at me and seeing how mad she makes me.

Because, goddamn, I’m mad.

But afraid, too. I’m fucking terrified.

Afraid that she’ll leave—and leave me. Terrified that something happened to her.

The first rays of sunlight infiltrate the space obnoxiously as dawn announces the day will soon rise, and I can’t just stand here and wait any longer.

As much as my own body revolted against itself, I gave her the hours and the miles away to think it through and see the truth. Tortuous hours of torment and turmoil, waiting and wondering as my muscles shrunk then stretched with blood that boiled and chilled in the span of a second.

If she couldn’t—if she refused to—I would go and get her back and make her see.

Just as I’m about to turn the ignition, a shrill sound erupts from my pocket. With fumbling hands, I retrieve the phone, but the name on the screen is not the one I need.

I pick up, anyway. “What?”

“My exact thought every one of the hundreds of times you’ve called me,” Detective Asshole drawls. “I’ve got something for you.”

“What?” I repeat without venom this time, only worry and concern.

“How soon can you come to the station?”

With the right amount of speeding and enough run red lights, I’m parked less than half an hour later, and catching sight of detective Jones. Smoke billows from between his fingers in a spiral as he awaits with a self-satisfied smirk.

“You’re gonna get a ticket.” He tips his head to my car in a prohibited parking spot, taking a puff of his cigarette. I shrug and raise my eyebrows to my hairline, wordlessly pressing him to get on with whatever this is. Tapping a finger on his cancer stick, he acquiesces. “We were able to track your little stalker.”

My chest deflates like a balloon, making space for relief. “Zoe’s safe?”

“Unless you have more stalkers with access to guns and privileged information.” He smashes the butt of the cigarette under a steel toe boot. “You’re gonna want to hear this, though.” As Jones leads our way inside through uniforms bowing their heads in acknowledgement, he explains they were able to track Lucy by recent phone calls. “As soon as she was detained, she started singing like a birdie. And her song was a suicidal stone that killed two birds.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Usually, I would have minded my tone as I addressed the authorities, but today I’m not in a place in which I could remotely care. It also helps that we’ve forged some kind of familiarity over the last months as I badgered and pressured him once he took charge of Zoe's attack case.

As we finally get to his office, he enters first, holding the door for me. Only after it’s closed shut does he continue.

“According to her statement, someone warned her that your girl is a selfish bitch who’s taken over your life and is ruining your career.” The muscle in my jaw ticks like a bomb with every sentence he relays, so much that he raises his palms to remind me they were not his sentences. “So, Charlie’s Angel took matters into her own hands.” Leaning against his desk, he shoves his hands inside the pockets of his jeans. “Between you and me, the girl doesn’t seem… well. And someone took advantage of that—which is where this gets truly interesting. Wanna take a guess?”

“I’m not in the mood for games.” I fold my arms before I get the urge to break something. “Just spit it out.”

“Charles Cox.” He uncrosses his ankles, crossing them again with the opposite foot. “Thought for sure you’d get the hint from Charlie’s Angel.”

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