Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
I can’t afford to lose these.
When I fold the bags, I realize there’s one more small box tucked inside the last bag. A phone.
Nope, he doesn’t miss a thing.
But this is too much. How can I possibly thank him for what he’s done? Besides the beautiful clothes and accessories, he’s given me a way to stay connected to the world.
Wait . . . will I be able to connect with him again?
My focus doesn’t need to be on him when I have so much other stuff, like my life, to worry about, but he makes it impossible to deter my thoughts. A note with the phone number is taped to the bottom of the box. I stare at it. A flash of something I can’t interpret comes to mind. But it’s gone too fast.
I rub my temple to ease the onslaught of an ache and close my eyes. I was given instructions to take it easy since I hit my head. I wouldn’t describe my morning as easy based on how twisted in knots with worry my stomach has been, but when it growls in demand, I decide that might be the best course of action.
Sustenance will do me good.
I flip through the menu and call room service. When I hang up, I take the phone and turn it on. As soon as it’s activated, I retrieve Loch’s number and enter it into my contacts. He may be a little Billy goat gruff on the surface, but his generosity is unparalleled. For this gift, he deserves the honor of being my first contact.
Thinking of phones, I’m reminded that I haven’t heard from the police since I left the hospital. Glancing at the hotel phone, I didn’t miss any calls while in the bath. Oh God, they don’t know I’m here.
I remember the business card from the detective assigned to my case and call to check in and give him my new number. He’s not available, so I leave a message and lie on the bed with the phone next to me. I hope he calls me back because the waiting is torture.
Exhausted, my body is weak, my head hurts, and my hair feels like straw and is a complete mess. I could look in the mirror, but what’s the point? I’m already mortified that Loch saw me like this. Squeezing my eyes closed even tighter, I cringe.
Does it matter if he saw me looking horrific? No. I was attacked. He knows that. So why do I care what he thinks of my appearance?
I know why.
The man is gorgeous, and I can’t say for certain what my type was before, but visually, I feel like he would fit it . . . since he does now.
The food arrives, and I settle on the bed with the tray, dipping the fries in ketchup, then devouring half before I tackle the burger. When my mouth is full, my phone rings. I recognize the number and chew faster before I answer. “Hello?” I ask just after swallowing too fast.
The detective replies, “Hi, Tuesday?”
“This is she.”
“I only have a minute, but I wanted to return your call.”
“I appreciate that. Have you heard anything from my family? I bet they’re worried.”
“Unfortunately, there’s no new news. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours, so no reports of your disappearance have been filed. As much as you hate to hear it, it’s a waiting game. We did receive some footage from across the street from where you were mugged, confirming the details already filed. The footage is grainy. From that distance, it will be hard to identify anyone facially. We’ll be able to build out a profile, though. I should tell you that a lot of times, bags turn up in allies or trash bins. Most of the time, the muggers just want cash or something they can resell. So time is not our friend in cases like yours, so we need to rely on the missing persons report to come in to get you home.”
“What about the fingerprints you took at the hospital?”
“They didn’t pull anything. That’s not a bad thing. Just means you haven’t been booked before. Ran your photo but nothing popped up. Those are the initial steps. We’re digging deeper, don’t you worry.”
I had hoped that would lead me home. I mean, I’m glad I’m not a criminal, but how is there no trace of me using photos or fingerprints?
“I’ll contact you when I have more to share.”
“Thank you, Detective Langley.” I can’t hide my disappointment. I’ve seen enough movies and crime shows to know twenty-four hours is standard procedure, but when your life hangs in the balance, that period might as well be a mountain I have to climb to get to the other side.
I’ve lost the rest of my appetite. I lie back on the bed, wishing for the hours to pass. When I check the time on the phone again, it’s been two minutes. “Ugh!” I slam my hands down beside me. I want to scream, to kick my feet in protest, to get the answers I so desperately need to the questions plaguing me.