Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
I also knew that either these dudes didn’t put a lot of time into office organization, such was their desire to get the job done for their clients, or their business was new, what with all the boxes of unopened computers and flat screens and other shit I didn’t know what it was stacked around. Not to mention furniture that had been delivered, but not had its protective wrapping taken off. Nor had it been positioned, including desks, chairs, couches and a line of office chairs, which stood at attention along a wall, waiting for badass asses to rest in them.
I would rather have had them take me to my car so I could go home, have a bubble bath and descend into my Citadel of Denial, a place I’d had nineteen years to design, and it was impenetrable. It had ramparts and trebuchets, and vats filled with boiling tar and everything.
It was the shit.
It kept me safe.
With these guys I didn’t feel not safe, but I also didn’t feel safe.
I was sitting in one of the few chairs that had been unwrapped, across a handsome executive desk (that had also been unwrapped, but the top of it was completely bare), staring down the Hottie Partner.
I did this while Chris Evans stood against the wall behind the desk, arms crossed on his wide chest (thus, pecs popping, Lord), knee bent, one boot against the wall, blue-gray eyes scowling at me.
By the by, he could scowl very well.
Therefore, no matter how much I whipped up my trusty steed (her name was Cinnamon) to get me across the drawbridge and into the bailey of my Citadel, I knew I was screwed.
Not to mention, the staring contest I had going on with Hottie Partner, who seemed more like he was Hottie Head Honcho, was lasting a long time.
In the Denali, after I’d asked if they were taking me back to my Juke, and Chris Evans had replied with a curt, “No,” I decided further discussion could happen once they’d reamed me for being an idiot who frequently involved myself in deranged mischiefs (though, they didn’t know the “frequent” part of that).
The thing I had on my side was…I’d saved the girl.
And that was a big thing to have on my side. At least I thought so, even if they were right on my tail in that endeavor.
Finally, Hottie Honcho spoke.
“Let’s start with how you knew it was Donald Walken.”
“Sorry?” I asked.
“How did you know Walken had Elsie Fay?” Hottie Honcho rearranged his question.
Oh.
“I went to Elsie Fay’s church,” I answered.
Hottie Honcho didn’t say anything.
I read this as he wanted more.
“So, you know, whoever took her had to have opportunity. Right?”
Hottie Honcho nodded. Once.
“And he had to have seen her, and from there, probably followed her, researched her, so he knew when he could take her.”
Hottie Honcho said nothing and made no move.
I read that as agreement.
“So…school, neighbor, friend of family, employee of a grocery store they frequented, stuff like that. All of which the cops were going to sort through with a fine-tooth comb. But days passed, and she wasn’t found. Then her parents asked the reverend at their church to be their spokesperson with the media, so I figured they were religious. If they went to church, Elsie Fay did. And maybe the bad guy did too. So I went to their church.”
“And?” Hottie Honcho prompted.
“And, they are religious. The mom teaches Sunday school. The dad is a deacon. I went to church that first Sunday after she went missing. The reverend asked everyone to keep them and Elsie Fay in their prayers, and if they heard anything, or saw anything, to report it to the police immediately, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. Elsie Fay’s folks were there. Everyone was glancing at them. Or trying not to and looking sad or upset. Except, well…”—I shrugged—“him.”
Hottie Honcho looked over his shoulder at Chris.
Chris looked at Honcho and shook his head, also once.
Honcho turned back to me.
“Obviously, that was weird,” I shared. “What was weirder was that he seemed to diligently avoid looking at them or having any reaction. Therefore, I followed him home from church. Then I went to my place and”—I lifted my hands, mimicked tapping on a keyboard, wished I hadn’t because I undoubtedly looked like a dufus, dropped my hands and concluded—“did some Google magic, and found he was not to be found, at all, anywhere. He rented his house, that was as far as I got. No social media. No LinkedIn. No nada. Which was even weirder. Therefore, I had to take a closer look.”
Honcho again said nothing. Chris didn’t either, nor did he move, though he was back to glowering at me.
“So, how did you know?” I asked.
Honcho answered, “Donald Walken’s name is really Paul Nicholson, and he’s on the sex offender list. He’s already done time for some sick shit. This is why he illegally started using a new identity. Also why no one in his neighborhood or at the church knew he’s messed way the fuck up.”