Page 99 of Severed Rivalry
Me: Trust him.
“Yeah?” The rev of a motorcycle engine roars in the background
“ETA?”
“Fucking fast, brother. Where am I taking her?”
“My house for now.”
“Angel, where’s your car?”
What? “Why?”
“Never mind. Li, get Renée. We’ll meet you at my place.”
He hangs up with a “Roger that.”
“Don’t worry about your car. We’ll figure that out. Now, I need you to tell me where Rosie is.”
“We have the same last name.” It’s all coming together for me, and I don’t like the picture that’s being revealed. “You think they could get to her?”
He nods slowly and drops a bomb. “Angel, where does Rosie work?”
“She’s a counselor at an addiction center.” I offer the name and area of town.
“Call her and tell her to come to my house. She needs to grab a rideshare and do it now. If she can’t, tell me, and I’ll send someone.”
I dial her and it goes straight to voicemail.
A second call does the same.
Me: Rosie, call me.
Me: It’s urgent.
Finally, I look up the center online and dial their main number. When the receptionist answers, I explain who I am and ask to speak with Rosie, even if it’s interrupting a session. “I’dnever ask if it weren’t critical,” I add, hoping to smooth out my demands.
“Sariah, Ms. Ocotea never came in this morning. We reached out to her because a no-call, no-show is so unlike her. You know how consistent she is…”. She may keep talking but I don’t hear anything. My phone slips from my hand onto the truck’s rubber floor mat.
Turning to Cian, I whisper through the lump of panic welling in my throat. “She didn’t come in this morning. No call. No show.”
“Renée or Rosie?” He forces a choice I never want to make. Renée. Always Renée, but?—
“Liam will get Renée, right?”
“Yes.”
There’s no other alternative. He’s already in route and is closer than we are. He’ll save her.
He has to save her.
I’m spiraling. “If you’re sure, head to—” Calm descends, and I offer turn-by-turn after giving him the general cross streets for Rosie’s house. I’ve never been so thankful for a planned city.
We tear across town, heading west on 285. We’re making a right, going north when the phone rings.
“Yeah?”
“Mom?” The panic in my daughter’s voice would be enough to push me over the edge, except she’s yelling. “I’m talking to you through a helmet. I’m on a motorcycle.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “He’s not wearing a helmet because I have his, and he’s going fast.” The last word stretches out like she’s on a roller coaster.
