Page 111 of Torched Spades
All this time I was worried about bullets and blades when I should have worried about roses and daggers.
My stomach turns when I think about Becca’s tearful confession last night. This will destroy her when she finds out… Which is all the more reason for me to leave now.
All risk to her life revolves around me.
My family has found me, and unless I get the hell out of town, more bodies will follow.
Starting with Becca’s.
Chapter Thirty-Four
BECCA
“The numberyou are calling is no longer in service…”
After the third time of receiving the same message, I stare at my cell phone in disbelief. How can this be possible? Convinced that, somehow, I’ve dialed the wrong number, I try for a fourth time, only to receive the same automated recording.
Owen Holmes’s business line has been disconnected.
Johnny isn’t answering his phone.
And my gut is so drunk it’s all but passed out on the side of the road.
I’m sitting in my office staring at my laptop, a lead weight on my chest and a hole in my heart. The whole day has been an exercise in faking a smile and pretending to listen. All I wanted to do after my father’s phone call this morning was cancel all my appointments and track Johnny down to demand answers.
Why did he leave me?
Why won’t he answer my calls?
What happened between Jack and him?
That last one, I’m trying not to think about for my own sanity. I have to believe Johnny had nothing to do with Jack’s disappearance. The alternative is just too heart-crushing to consider.
But a full day of therapy isn’t something a medical professional can just cancel at will. My patients’ mental well-being depends on me being dependable and stable—at least on the outside.
However, it’s Thursday at five thirty-nine p.m., and everyone has left the building. Even Meredith packed up early and took off for a long weekend. But I can’t bring myself to leave. What do I have to go home to? A boarded-up bedroom window and sheets that smell like burnt pine and spice?
I’m not ready to face it.
So I sit in silence, still staring at the blinking cursor on the search bar, Jack’s warning swimming through my head.
“People are rarely what they seem, Becs. You know that better than anyone. Just do me a favor, okay? Whoever this ‘patient’ is—pull up his arrest record and see what you’re dealing with.”
That also goes for probation officers.
Gritting my teeth, I hover my fingers over the keyboard before slowly typing in the one name I haven’t searched.
Owen Holmes.
All that comes up is the address and phone number for his office at the courthouse. Just like Johnny, there are no social media pages, no website, no prior addresses—nothing. Although the space at the courthouse is listed as being occupied for six years, nothing I find corroborates that.
Like Johnny, it’s as if until three months ago, he simply didn’t exist.
The longer I stare at the damn blinking cursor, the higher my anxiety climbs. I’m running out of names to search, and with Johnny not answering his phone, there’s not much I have to go on.
As intimate as we’ve been, I realize I know next to nothing about him.
Nothing about his family.
