Page 94 of Don't You Pucking Dare

This isn't fucking normal. Lola doesn't disappear. Lola doesn't ignore my calls. Something's very fucking wrong.

The music building is almost empty this late, my footsteps echoing off the walls. Each empty classroom ramps up the tension in my chest. Her last two classes—nothing. No one's seen her since morning.

I find her professor packing up his stuff, sheet music scattered across his desk.

"Yeah, she was in class, yes." He shuffles through some papers, oblivious to my growing rage.

"Was Amanda in class today?" Every second feels like time I don't have.

He nods, finally looking up. Concern flickers across his face. "Is there something I should know?"

"No." I'm already out the door, phone in hand.

Amanda answers on the first ring. "Hey, stranger."

"Where's Lola?" My voice comes out like ice.

She laughs, the sound grating against my nerves. "Wow, well... uh, she's not here."

"No games, Amanda." I slam through the building's exit door. "Where the hell is she?"

"I don't know. She saw her mom—"

"What?" The word comes out like a bullet.

"Yeah, I don't know. I thought it was cute that her mom—"

I end the call, fingers already dialing Noah. The parking lot stretches out in front of me, and every empty space where Lola's car should be makes my blood run hotter.

"What." Noah's voice is sharp, business.

"Get yourself ready because we have some shit to deal with." I'm already heading for my car, keys cutting into my palm.

"More than I already got?"

"Lola's missing." The words taste like violence. "Her mom fucking took her. I need backup."

"Got it."

"Don't bring Jack."

His laugh is all darkness. "Jack is no longer a Reaper. Turns out he helped out Rick Kemper after all. He isn't a problem anymore."

"Shit."

The sun's almost gone now, casting long shadows across campus. Somewhere out there, Lola's with the woman who haunts her nightmares. But they don't know what they've started—you don't take what belongs to a Reaper and walk away.

The door to her mom's apartment splinters under my boot. Inside, everything reeks of stale cigarettes and desperation. Noah and Thatcher fan out behind me, methodically tearing through the place while I fight the urge to break everything I touch.

Empty drawers hit the floor. Closets spill their secrets. In the bedroom, the nightstand yields a stack of crumpled papers, and one name jumps out like a knife to the throat.

"Nico," I mutter, staring at the number scrawled beneath it.

"What?" Noah snatches the paper, his face going hard. "What the fuck."

He pulls out his phone, puts it on speaker. The dial tone cuts through the chaos we've made of the apartment.

"Nico, you still messing with the Kemper shit?"

---