Page 19 of Embrace Me Forever

BLAKE

The past few weeks have been a drastic shift in direction. After putting the Georgia-May case on hold, I was abruptly whisked off to Zurich with Rob and Clay to tackle an assignment regarding a potential expansion of Hartley Marine’s European operations. But now that our overseas venture is wrapped up, I finally landed in Denver a couple of days ago.

This morning, I’m back at Georgia-May’s apartment complex, continuing the unfinished business that so far has yielded nothing. I’ve swapped rental cars, not wanting to look like a returning stalker. With my hair forced into something resembling order—though a few curls still rebel—I go for my best ‘Joe Jonas’ vibe, thick-rimmed glasses in place. I settle into my usual lookout spot. This place feels like a second home now, where I spend countless hours watching, waiting, hoping for any glimpse of her.

As I switch between these field observations, I’ve dug into the backgrounds of every competitor and newcomer who might have a motive to target Hartley Marine. I’ve sifted through extortion attempts, followed money trails, and eavesdropped on conversations within and beyond the yacht industry’s innercircles. Yet, despite all this, I’ve found nothing that links back to her.

It feels as though Denver has swallowed Georgia-May whole. Tangible leads are frustratingly scarce. The first clue was a bank record showing her cashing the Hartley Marine check for the full amount at a branch near her apartment the day after her presentation. Another sliver of evidence emerged from an old CCTV clip at the airport, dated the day our paths first crossed. It captured her slight frame as she hailed a cab. I must have watched that footage a hundred times, searching for hidden clues in her movements, the way she glanced over her shoulder as if she already sensed my eyes on her.

According to the cab’s log, the driver dropped her off at the address she provided in her proposal, the very apartment I’ve been watching. I’ve tried to picture her in one of those units, living her life, but there’s been no sign of her. Conveniently, it’s a building with no CCTV, and none of the neighbors recall seeing her. If she’s moved, I’ll be back to square one.

The silence stretches on, mocking my persistence.

“Fuck this!” I grumble, giving up my vigil. There’s nothing here. No lights flicker on in her windows, no movement behind the curtains.

I drive to the University of Colorado, hoping Georgia-May’s last known workplace might offer some answers. Dressed in smart-casual attire, tie and briefcase in hand, I look the part of a typical staff member.

As I cross the sprawling campus, I notice a man in a hoodie. He should be just another student, but something about his demeanor feels off. His curiosity seems a bit too intense for someone just passing through.

“I’m looking for Ms. Williams,” he says to a woman exiting an office, his accent slightly off-kilter.

I hang back, pretending to check my phone as I listen in.

“Oh, Ms. Williams doesn’t work here anymore,” she replies.

Doesn’t work here anymore?

The woman offers more help, but he waves her off and pivots sharply.

I trail him through the main quad, slipping between students who’ve just finished class. I keep my pace casual, shadowing him as he drifts toward a quieter part of campus. He never looks back, doesn’t seem rushed. Between the sparse groups of people, he doesn’t notice me, but I’m watching him. He keeps his head down, clearly aware of the campus security cameras, moving as if he knows exactly how not to be seen.

As we near the edge of campus, where the foot traffic thins, he slips outside into a parking lot and climbs into a car, disappearing without a second look.

“Interesting,” I mutter, turning back toward the campus.

Finally, I locate Dr. Emily Turner’s office—Georgia-May’s former supervisor. The door is slightly ajar, so I knock. A woman in her mid-forties looks up from her desk, her short, curly hair framing sharp, intelligent eyes that seem to take me in all at once.

“I’m Simon Blake. I talked to you on the phone just now. Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Dr. Turner,” I say.

“It’s quite all right,” she says, appraising me. “Come in. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Georgia-May Williams. I’m representing my client for a routine background check.”

“Usually, a phone call would suffice.”

“The position Georgia-May is applying for is too important for a mere phone call,” I insist, hoping my bluff holds.

She raises an eyebrow but motions for me to sit. “What do you need to know, Mr. Blake?”

“How long has Georgia-May worked at the University?” I ask, aiming to keep my tone light and unassuming.

Dr. Turner leans back in her chair. “About two years. But she quit a few weeks ago. She said an opportunity had presented itself, too good to pass up, a position that would use her math and programming skills fully.”

I lean forward, my pulse quickening. That’s around the same time she presented to Hartley Marine. It’s no coincidence. “Did she discuss that position with you?”

Dr. Turner studies me, her expression guarded. “No. If it wasn’t with your client, I think you might be too late.”

I smile. “Maybe. But I’d like to be optimistic and think we can still change her mind.”

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