Page 48 of Detective Daddy Next Door

On Monday morning, I drive over to her office again, this time as a detective. Bria is missing and I'm not playing games. She didn’t call yesterday. She also did not turn up today. Now, it’s certain that she's in grave danger.

I ask to see Micha. As I'm let into her office, I see Daisy sitting opposite their boss.

"Jasper?" Micha asks.

I nod.

"Please, have a seat. How may I help you?"

"I'm looking for Bria. She hasn't been to work today, has she?"

"I was just asking Daisy about her. No, she hasn't. It's quite strange that she wouldn't show up to work and not call." She turns to Daisy. "And you're sure she didn't tell you anything?"

Daisy shakes her head.

"I just want to say that I intend to file a missing person's report. And I intend to find her."

Daisy clears her throat. "Umm. I'll get to work now, Micha." Then turns to me. "I hope you—I mean we—find her. I'll call every person I know."

I nod as she leaves the room.

"Oh my God. This is awful. Bria would never leave without telling anyone. She's too responsible for that. Something's definitely happened to her," Micha says.

I sigh.

"Have you informed her loved ones?"

"Not yet."

"Have you tried calling her? Here. Let me try," she says, sliding her phone off the table.

"It's no use. I called her all through yesterday and this morning."

Micha puffs out air. "This is so strange."

I want to tell her Bria was last at the office. At least, it's where she told Ava she was going, but I hold the information back. "Alright. I'll be off now."

"Please, let me know if you find out anything."

"I will."

I step out of the building and stand in the parking lot. Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse. I hope she's safe wherever she is. I've worked cases like this, and I know how these things typically turn out. I don't want Bria to be a statistic. My heart won't be able to bear it.

I look up to the sky and shut my eyes. "Where are you, Bria?”

Chapter 19

Bria

Iriseslowlyfromthe bed in the corner of the room. Today, Daisy has left the light on. It's a bulb emanating yellow light from where it's hanging on the ceiling. It's not as bright as the white light in my house. The first day she put me in here, my nose struggled to adjust to the musty smell. It smelled of earth and unwashed things, but it's been three days since I got here, and my nose is slowly getting used to it. Now, it smells musty only once in a while. I walk toward the door and put my right ear to it. I listen for any sound. The smell of garlic travels through the space between the floor and the door. I stop myself from sneezing out loud. I sneeze inwardly, it hurts, but I prefer it to Daisy running down to check on me because I've got plans and her showing up would spoil them.

I’ve been here for three days, and my hands have been tied behind my back—not with the same rope from the night at the office, but a much thicker rope. It grips my hands together tightly and leaves no wiggle room. For thirty minutes each day, Daisy comes to take the rope off, to allow for some blood flow, she'd said. Whenever she does this, she doesn't leave me alone in the room. She sits in a metal chair in the other corner while looking at her watch, I guess to count down, and once it's been thirty minutes she ties the rope around my wrists again and leaves the room, locking the door with a key. Whenever I go to the bathroom, she doesn’t take the rope off, she goes in with me and helps me pull down my pants, then waits outside.

I sit back on the bed and slowly slide to the floor. I shift slowly to the left, my tied hands making it difficult. I wish she’d tied them to the front; it would have made my mission easier. Yesterday, I noticed a sharp edge on the midpart of one of the bed legs. I noticed by mistake. I was frustrated and kicked the leg of the bed hard, and it gave me a cut, thankfully a small one. When she came into the room a minute later because I had screamed, I was still reeling from the pain, but I hid it well from her. Immediately after she left, I lowered myself to the floor and tried to saw the rope against the little sharp edge, hoping it'd cut me free. But it didn't.

When I was sure she'd gone to sleep last night, I went back to working on the rope. I did the same this morning before breakfast, and again before lunch. And now that I'm sure she's making dinner, I want to have a go again. Maybe I can get myself free before she comes in to deliver dinner. Then I could keep my hands to the back as though I still had them tied, and when I'm sure I'm at an advantage, grab the gun from her and run out.

I put my wrists to the sharp edge again and start to saw. But I haven’t done it for long when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. I scramble off the floor as best I can and sit on the bed. I suspect a trickle of sweat is on my forehead, but I can't wipe it off. The one small window at the top of the wall is shut, which means zero breeze is coming in, making the heat worse. The door opens and she comes in, a tray held close to her chest with one hand and a gun in the other. She leaves the door open and puts the tray on the bed, then sets the gun on a small stool at the foot of the bed. She goes to shut the door and then comes to sit beside me, the tray of food between us.

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