Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 69536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“What do we do now?”
“First thing we do is go over to their place and look for clues.”
“How can we do that? It’s probably locked up.”
“Baby, I was in the military. I’ve broken into way harder places than some teacher’s house.”
“But what if… What if we get caught?”
“I’ve never gotten caught in my life.”
“I’m not sure we should. It’s a total invasion of her privacy.”
“It is, and if you feel that strongly about it, we won’t do it. But if you want clues about where she may have gone so we can find her, that’s the only way.”
He’s right. “Okay. Besides, she’s not on my side. She never was.”
45
BUCK
Gloria Delgado and her husband, Brian Hansen, live in a modest ranch home just outside LA. It’s a cookie-cutter neighborhood, all the houses look the same, but the stucco is painted different colors. Gloria’s house is a mint green, unusual in LA. A Ford Focus is parked in the driveway.
Of course that doesn’t mean anything. They most likely have two cars, and they took the other one when they fled.
If they fled, which it appears they probably did, Aspen was right all along. Gloria knows much more than she’s admitting.
I should’ve followed my instinct as well. Gloria fleeing from the restaurant the other day was a huge red flag.
I’ve been a little off my game since I met Aspen. She consumes my thoughts, but if I truly want to help her, I need to be all in. I need to have all my senses on high alert.
I park the car in the street, grab the small kit I brought, and Aspen and I get out.
I can’t help but stare at her. She’s wearing shorts today. Denim Daisy Dukes, and her legs go on forever. Scars and all, her legs are gorgeous—especially when they’re wrapped around me.
Wearing shorts is a big step for her. I need to support her, rather than have my tongue hanging out my mouth like a horny teenager.
She leads me up the concrete pathway to the door. The first thing I notice is there’s no screen door. Not odd, since it’s so hot in LA they probably keep the door shut and the air-conditioning on.
Aspen knocks.
Then knocks again.
I unzip my canvas kit and reach for my lock picking tools, but before I can do anything, Aspen grasps the doorknob, twists it, and to both of our surprises, it opens.
Then I let my instinct take over.
I pull some blue nitrile gloves from the kit and hand a pair to Aspen. “Put these on.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t know what we’re going to find in here, and I don’t want our fingerprints all over the place.”
“But I just opened the door!”
“I know.” I grab a red bandana from my bag and wipe the doorknob clean. “Now you didn’t.”
We walk inside quietly. My shoulder holster digs into my back. I didn’t tell Aspen, but I’m armed. I had the Glock delivered when we arrived in LA. I couldn’t take my own on the plane, not without checking a bag, and even then it’s ill advised. While she was whining at me for taking too long in the shower, I was putting the pistol in place and buttoning up a shirt so she wouldn’t notice it.
God willing I won’t have to use it.
But something is not right here. Something is not right at all. I suppose they could’ve left town in a hurry and forgot to lock the door, but that seems unlikely.
“Gloria?” Aspen calls.
“They’re not here,” I say.
But then I jerk toward a yappy sound.
We walk to the back of the house to find a small dog barking at the back door, which also isn’t locked.
“It’s a miniature schnauzer.” I open the door to let the dog in. He yelps at me for a moment but then runs to a bowl of water in the corner and begins thirstily drinking.
“They left their dog here? Outside?” I shake my head. “These aren’t good people, Aspen.”
“Oh my God.” Aspen walks to the puppy sipping water. She leans down and pets him. “You poor thing. How long have you been out there all alone?”
The dog is too busy lapping water to notice a stranger is petting him.
She fingers his collar, his tags. “Your name is Edgar. Hey Edgar. Are you hungry? Where does Gloria keep your food?”
Aspen rises and begins looking through the kitchen, opening doors, drawers, and cupboards. Finally she finds a few cans of dog food. She pulls one out, opens the flip top can, and pours some of the dog food into Edgar’s bowl.
“Come here, Edgar. Are you hungry?”
Edgar is hungry. He gobbles down the food.
“You may have given him too much,” I say. “He’s a small dog.”
“You’re right. But who knows when he last ate?”
Once Edgar finishes his food, he goes back to the water and laps up what’s left of it. Then he walks slowly toward Aspen. He’s made a friend for life, because Aspen fed him.