Page 172 of Deliverance

“And you know all of mine.”

“I don’t think I do.” He cracks a smile, slipping from under me and lifting me up from the couch. I’m pressed to his muscled chest as we head up the stairs. “But I’m ready to resume my research.”

I giggle into the crook of his neck and nod. “Okay.”

26 Zander

The poundingof the rain against the roof of the oceanside cafe isn’t calming at all. They say it’s supposed to be, but I guess not for me. And not today.

My nerves feel raw and exposed, my feet restless, tapping out a beat under the small wooden table.

“I gotta tell you, this guy is either a real pro or a psychopath,” Jensen Cerza, the PI Cole put me in touch with, says while I scan endless sheets of paper he brought in with him in an unmarked manila envelope.

He’s about my age, burly, with short brown hair and a small pink scar that runs from his temple to the center of his left cheek. Old battle wound. Or at least, that’s what I was told during our first meeting a few weeks ago.

“There’s no address,” I mutter, skimming over the information. “Nothing.”

Jensen plucks a toothpick from the plastic holder at the edge of the table, shoves it into the corner of his mouth, and chews. “He knows how to cover his tracks.”

“No shit.” I lift my gaze from the papers, and something a lot like panic washes through me.

“Everything he’s been doing so far tells me he has a plan and he’s working toward an endgame. I don’t know what it is, but it definitely involves the wife.”

“Ex-wife,” I correct him through gritted teeth. Although their divorce is in limbo, deep in my heart, I know that for Drew Rhys Jacoby is ancient history, one she put behind her long ago.

“He’s only using cash. There’s no digital trail of him living in California whatsoever,” Jensen says, biting into the toothpick.

I continue to scour the photos in front of me, my mind racing.

“Two weeks ago, he drove to Idyllwild and met with this guy.” His thick finger points at a shot of an older man in a green trucker jacket on one of the printouts. “Matthew Dirks.”

“Any idea who this Matthew is?” I ask, the pulse in my throat accelerating.

His movements around the city don’t make any sense. None whatsoever.

“Dirks owns several properties in the Riverside Mountains. Most are vacation rentals. This is really the only solid piece of info I’ve found so far.” Jensen shoves more papers at me, all featuring cabins nestled somewhere in the snow.

I study the maps and the images, reds and blacks saturating my vision.

“Listen,” the PI continues in a hushed voice, torturing his toothpick. “The guy’s got some loose screws. Don’t even think about approaching him.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Just sit and wait while he’s stalking my woman?”

“He hasn’t tried to initiate contact. I’m sure he knows the police are involved now, and he’s running scared. That’s one of the reasons he’s stayed under the radar for so long.”

I rest my elbow on the table top and prop my forehead on my palm. My emotions are starting to get the best of me, battling, screaming, and wanting to run free. Being a bystander isn’t something I can stomach at this point.

Not where Drew’s concerned.

“Keep doing what you’re doing, man.” I begin shoving the papers into the envelope, my gaze darting to the gray clouds gathered on the horizon where the agitated ocean meets the crying sky.

“If he makes a move, I’ll be in touch.” Jensen pulls a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet, but I stop him.

“I got the check. Thanks.”

“Be careful.”

I sit in taut silence for a few minutes after he’s gone, my fingers doing a timid bang-bang-bang against the table. Funny, but the tune is one of the Bleeding Faith songs, a reminder to get my head straight before we go back into the studio to record the cover Leo fought tooth and nail for.

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