Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64379 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“Nothing?” Che asks.
“No. Straight to voicemail.” My stomach snarling into a hard knot, I slide my backpack to the floor and grab the folder. Whipping out the mug shot, I ask, “It wasn’t this guy, was it?”
I’m praying he’ll say no, but his expression immediately lifts with recognition.
“Yeah. That’s him.” Che glances up, his worried gaze locking with mine. “And that’s a mug shot.”
I nod grimly. “Yeah. He’s her ex. And he’s bad news.” I’m about to say more, but before I get the chance, Mrs. Greer pipes up from the other end of the desk. “I saw him, too. He was lurking outside the market all afternoon, by the exit to the subway. He was there for hours.” She points toward the opposite side of the street.
Throat tight, I nod. “Do you remember what he was wearing?”
“A tan jacket,” Che says. “The canvas kind. I remember because I was thinking how it wasn’t warm enough for a New York winter and that he must not be from around here.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Greer confirms, “and a black sweater and dark-wash jeans. Black boots with red laces and a gold watch on his left wrist. And a sock cap, also black with white snowflakes around the bottom. He bought it from one of the vendors on the corner.”
“Thank you,” I say, my thoughts racing. “When did you last see him?”
Mrs. Greer’s broad brow furrows. “Not long. Maybe an hour ago? I looked out the window before I came down to get my mail and he wasn’t there, but he might have gone into the market to warm up. The temperature’s dropping fast. We’re in for a cold snap tonight.” She reaches up, pulling the thick, green scarf from around her neck and holding it out between us. “Here, have this. You shouldn’t be out looking for her without a scarf.”
Touched, I take the offering. “Thank you so much. I’ll bring it back as soon as I find them.”
“Just bring them back,” Mrs. Greer says. “That’s all that matters.”
Nodding, I push the mugshot across the counter to Che. “Keep that. If they’re not back by midnight, call the police and tell them everything. I don’t know if we’ll be able to file a missing person report by then, but considering the history Nat has with this guy, we might.” I briefly fill them both in on Phillip’s crimes before backing toward the door. “I’ll call the lobby line if I find them.”
“And I’ll update Mrs. Greer when you do,” Che says, before adding with an arched brow, “If that’s okay with you.”
“That’s totally okay,” I say, glancing her way. “Thank you, again.”
She nods soberly. “You’re welcome. Call if there’s anything else we can do to help.”
Promising I will, I head back into the rapidly cooling air. I check the market across the street, but there’s no sign of a beefy redheaded man there or lurking around the subway. I ask the woman selling hats and scarves about him, but she doesn’t know anything aside from the fact that he bought the same kind of hat Mrs. Greer described.
I try Natalie again via phone and text, trying to stay hopeful, but even as I type—Where are you, Nat? Text or call as soon as you can, okay? I’m worried about you and Crissy. I just want to know you’re both all right—a part of my brain is flashing back to the true crime podcasts Evie listens to while she’s painting.
The ones where every text is analyzed after the fact, to determine when the victim went missing…
But I refuse to let Natalie become one of the thousands of women who don’t survive getting involved with a monster. I’m going to find her and Crissy and I’m not letting them out of my sight until Phillip is back behind bars for violating his fucking parole.
I’m about to call Jess and give her an update to share with Evie and Harlow—and ask if she has any ideas about how to track Natalie down—when an alert pops up on my phone, informing me location sharing has been turned on for a California number.
Natalie’s number…
Chapter Twenty-Two
Natalie
Destiny, my hippie friend from high school, insisted we all manifest our own luck—good or bad—one thought at a time.
She was always thanking the universe for things she wanted before she’d received them, positive that the invisible powers that be would make her dreams come true as long as she kept her thoughts in a happy, grateful place.
And, an astounding amount of the time, her methods worked. I used to tease her about being a good witch, while she insisted that I could manifest the same magic if I was willing to put in the work to keep my mind on the right path.
But I was seventeen and busy living in the moment. I didn’t have the discipline to spend hours every day wrangling my wayward thoughts, and my luck seemed just fine without it. I had sweet parents and great friends who supported me, found mentors in the San Fran food scene who helped me rise quickly through the ranks, and though I hadn’t met “The One,” I’d dated some really cool guys who helped me learn what I did and didn’t want in a love relationship.