Page 32 of Myla: The Hawthornes

“We can’t find her,” I said, cutting right to the chase. “Night before last she called Richie, freaked, and asked him to come get her. No one’s heard from her since, and Richie’s in the hospital.”

“He okay?” Tate asked.

“Someone shot him.”

The receptionist made a noise and braced her hand on the table.

“Night before last?”

“Yeah.”

I looked at her. She was about Aisling’s age, with short bleached hair.

“She was going on a date that night, remember?” the blond asked, looking at Tate. “With that guy from last week. The anchor and daisies guy.”

“What guy?” I asked, watching her closely.

“A customer,” Tate answered. “Usually don’t do that kind of thing, but I did the work, Aisling didn’t.”

“What do you know about this guy?”

“Uh, not much,” he said slowly. “Short dark hair. Money. Said he had to keep tattoos covered at work, so nothing below the wrists or above the collar. Some kind of corporate job, I think.”

“One that paid a fuck of a lot,” the blond added. “He tipped like a hundred percent.”

“Pay with a credit card?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

“Man, we can’t—” Tate hedged, shaking his head.

“Aisling ismissingand Richie’s probably not gonna make it,” I said flatly, cutting him off. “You say she went out with this guy. I’m sayin’ she ended up scared and callin’ our brother to come get her in the middle of the night. Our brother, who’s now dyin’ ’cause someone shot him. You really gonna pull that shit?”

“What’s goin’ on out here?” an older man asked as he walked out of a door behind the counter. He was a big guy, at least six-three, with a huge chest and arms and tattoos all the way up to his chin.

Tate quickly gave him a run-down of the situation.

“Give it to him,” the man said before Tate was even finished speaking. He looked at the blond. “You know where to look?”

“Yeah,” she replied quickly, sitting back down and immediately messing with her computer.

“I’m Dan,” the older guy said, coming over to shake my hand. “Own this place.”

“Thanks for cuttin’ through the bullshit,” I replied with a nod.

“Aisling’s one of ours,” he said easily. “I hope she’s okay.”

“Yeah, me too.” I looked over at the blond. She was still on the computer. Across the room a printer started making noise, and she hopped up and hurried toward it.

“You’ll let us know?” Dan asked as the blond carried over a sheet of paper.

“I will,” I confirmed, taking the paper. “Didn’t get this from you.”

Dan scoffed. “Someone asks, say whatever you want. I’ll deal with it.”

“Thanks, man.”

I didn’t look down at the paper until I’d reached my bike. The blond had printed out the man’s name—Julian Kitz—and a photo of the tattoo they’d put on his forearm. I smiled and pulled out my phone.

Brody answered on the second ring.

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