Page 46 of Resolute

I’m not going to get any sleep until I check on Camila again. I know I’ve been horrible with her, but when I heard Owen speaking so filthy about her, I couldn’t bear it.

Vicente: Camila, are you sure you’re okay?

I wait a few minutes, staring at the screen—willing her to reply.

It’s the second time I've checked on her tonight, and I know I should back off. But I can’t shake the unease sitting heavy in my chest.

The message remains unread, and after ten minutes, I give up and head to my home gym to blow off some steam.

When I get to my office, the first thing I notice is that Camila is nowhere to be found.

Fuck. Did she quit?

I grab my phone and check our text thread, my message still shows as delivered but not read.

I head back to the reception and ask, “Ms. Smith, have you seen Ms. Flores this morning?”

Samantha rearranges her head piece as she shakes her head.

“Do we have her address on file?”

She clicks the keyboard a few times and jots down the address on a piece of paper before handing it to me.

I murmur my thanks and head back to my car.

Camila lives in the Sutton borough of London. It takes me well over an hour to arrive at her address—I can’t imagine how long it takes her on the Tube.

I’m such an arsehole, making her go to work so early.

I park in front of her building, and it strikes me how humble it looks. A three-story structure with some sort of shop on the first level. To the left—a red door that I assume leads to her flat.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, given she’s a single mum who once sold cookies to keep a roof over their heads, but this? This is just gloomy. I just hope the inside looks better than the outside.

Her apartment is on the third floor. No lift. I take the stairs two at a time. When I reach the door—3H—I inhale a deep, calming breath.

There’s no doorbell so I knock. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

Fear starts spreading through me.

Is she hurt?

Who would help her and her child?

Aren’t they alone?

I’m about to knock for a third time when the door cracks open—just the tiniest bit. I don’t see anyone. Then I glance down.

A single, wide brown eye looks up at me.

Her daughter.

Something inside me flinches.

“Is Camila home?” I ask.

The little girl opens the door a little bit more and nods her head.

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