Page 7 of Ugly Truths
Jeff.
I’ve seen him in photos. Cillian mentioned him two days ago, almost in passing, while talking about Elena. He’d brought up the last time she trained here, saying he wished he hadn’t brushed off her odd behavior that day. She was acting skittish and distant the whole prior week—not just with him, but with everyone—so he thought little of it.
The conversation made me realize she visited this gym the morning before she left. Something compelled me to look at the surveillance footage of my home from her last day here. She went to her training session with an unassuming black duffle bag and didn’t return with it several hours later.
It could’ve been nothing, but it felt likesomething.
Now I’m here, clinging to the theory that she trusted this man enough to ask him to help her disappear. Until she accesses that goddamn bank account, he might be the only lead I have.
Jeff’s shorter than I expected, maybe just a couple of inches taller than Elena, but solid. His arms are covered in tattoos—a snake curling up one forearm, constellations sprawling across the other—and his shaved head glows faintly under the fluorescent lights.
“I’m here for a kickboxing one-on-one. John,” I say the fake name with ease as I point to myself. “Heard you’re the guy to see.”
His sharp blue eyes take me in. My pulse kicks up, but there’s no flicker of recognition in his gaze.
“You train before?” he asks.
“I’ve taken a few classes,” I reply, adjusting the strap of the duffle bag hanging from my arm. “Wanted to give this place a try.”
A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got. We’ll start with an assessment. You fill out the forms online?”
“Yup.”
Without another word, he turns on his heel and strides toward a small plastic bin with several pieces of equipment. The faint hum of the gym’s lights buzzes in my ears. I drop my bag just as Jeff is reaching for a jump rope. He tosses it to me, chin jutting toward the rubber flooring next to the mat.
“Warm up,” he says simply.
For the next fifteen minutes, he puts me through a series of stretches, activations, and cardio drills. Sweat beads at my hairline, but he seems pleased enough with what I’m doing before strapping on some focus mitts and moving us onto the mat.
He raises his hands before speaking. “We’ll assess where you are and then create a schedule if you want to keep coming back. Sound good?”
As I dip my head in acknowledgment, Jeff taps the mitts together once before holding them steady. “Jab, cross,” he says.
I step in, keeping my stance loose, and fire off the two punches—snapping the jab out clean before driving a sharp cross into the pad. Jeff doesn’t react much, but there’s a small shift in his stance.
“Hook, cross.”
Rolling my shoulders, I throw the hook, smooth and controlled, before following with a crisp right cross.
“Not bad,” he mutters.
I exhale slowly, flexing my fingers.
Throwing another jab, I keep my movements fluid. “I had a friend who used to train here,” I say casually. “She only ever had good things to say.”
Jeff raises an eyebrow but doesn’t lower the mitts. “That so?”
He absorbs my next jab smoothly. “Said you were tough, no-nonsense. She was impressive, honestly,” I continue, my tone conversational. “I had to see for myself if the trainer she talked about was as good as she made him sound.”
Jeff shifts his weight, keeping his hands up. “Who exactly are we talking about?” he asks with a sharpness that wasn’t there before.
“Scarlett Page.”
There’s something in his eyes that he buries as quickly as it surfaces. He lowers the mitts slightly. “Ah,” he responds with a shrug. “I trained her for a while.”
I nod once. “She took off a few months ago.” I hold his gaze. “Something about her seemed… off. Any idea where she went?”
Jeff doesn't flinch.
