Page 119 of When We Break

“Sorry, boss, I just had to get this handled before you go. One more thing?—”

“No. Call me if there are issues, but you know this as well as I do. I have togo.”

He nods, and I wave, hurrying to my truck. The last class ends in fifteen minutes, and it’ll take me at least that long to get there. I don’t want my girl alone for even a minute. There’s no evidence that The Asshole has left Manhattan, but I’m not taking any chances with her safety.

Every day for the past month, she’s had someone, if not me, collect her from the dance studio. Family members have stepped in when I’ve been busy, or Benji has driven her home on the rare days that none of us are available. I hate that we don’t know where the fucker is or what his motives are. Does he know where she is? Hopefully not, but we’ve stayed vigilant, and this delay has me feeling on edge.

I’m making decent time into town when I come upon an accident and have to slow way down until I crawl to a stop.

Chase Wild holds up a hand, then crosses to my window, and I roll it down.

“What’s up?” I ask him.

“Fatality,” he says grimly. “They were going too fast around the bend. Hit a deer.”

“Shit.” I tighten my hand on the wheel. “Anyone we know?”

“No. Tourist. It’s going to take about ten more minutes to get the ambulance out of there and the vehicle moved.”

“Skyla’s alone at the studio,” I reply in agitation. “It makes me nervous.”

“Call her and check in,” he advises. Connor reached out to the Bitterroot Valley Police Department after the incident in LA, just in case we had any surprises, and I’m glad he did. I’ve known Chase all my life and trust him implicitly. “I’ll get you through here as soon as I can.”

With a nod, I pick up my phone and dial her number, but it goes to voicemail after the fourth ring.

With a scowl, I press the call button again but get the same result.

“Fuck,” I growl. It’s likely that she’s just in the restroom or neglected to turn her ringer back on after her class, but I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

So I call Connor.

“Gallagher,” he says.

“It’s Beck. I’m stuck behind an accident on the highway, and I’m late getting to Skyla. She’s not answering her phone. How far away from the studio are you?”

“Closer than you. I’ll head over.”

“Appreciate it,” I reply, and he ends the call. I need to know that she’s okay. I hate being late in getting her. It doesn’t happen often, and after today, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Nothing is more important than Irish.

Finally, the ambulance leaves the scene, and Chase waves his hand at me, indicating that I should drive through. With a relieved sigh, I do just that, nodding at my friend as I pass by.

When I’m sure I’m past the wreck, I floor it.

I pull up to the studio and see that I have beat Connor here. I’m about to call him back to tell him that I have this under control when my eyes spot a black mass on the studio floor.

Riley.

Something isnot fucking right.

Running out of my truck, I push through the door and scream my girl’s name.

“Skyla! Baby, where are you?”

There’s no answer. It’s silent in the studio as I run through checking every room, but I know I won’t find her.

She’s not here.

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