Page 137 of Locked in Wonderland

“So you’re going to call him?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t have his number.”

“But you know where he is?”

“No. I haven’t got a clue.”

Silence settled between us. Eventually, Hannah nodded. “You need a private detective.” It made sense. “It won’t be cheap.”

I slid the watch off my wrist. Nico’s watch. “I’ll sell this. And if that’s not enough, I’ll sell my car.”

“And if that’s still not enough?”

“I’ll rob a bank.”

Hannah snorted. “Christ. You really love him. I hope he feels the same.”

So did I. And that was assuming I could even find him.

Chapter Forty-two

Eight months after Wonderland

The past two weeks had settled into a weary routine. Arrive in a new city. Visit whichever restaurant, bar, gallery, hotel, or landmark Arthur Belmont insisted Nico had recently frequented. Spend two or three days watching, waiting, and growing steadily more convinced I’d been conned. Then I’d call Arthur and demand he earn the obscene amount I was paying him.

He always had an answer. Tracking someone like Nico took time. Be patient. Trust the process. A few hours later he’d ring back with another lead, another city.

And so it went on.

Madrid. Bordeaux. Geneva. Zurich. Stuttgart. Prague.

Now Berlin.

The only thing running lower than my patience was my bank balance. Hotels and travel weren’t cheap. Neither was paying Arthur. I didn’t have another car to sell. I figured I could last about another week before I had to concede defeat.

By then Nico would probably be in Denmark. Or Poland. If—and it became a bigger if with each passing day—Arthur wasn’t just feeding me bullshit to bleed me dry.

Of course, there was another possibility: that Nico knew I was following him. The thought kept me awake late into the night in whichever anonymous hotel room I’d holed up in. I’d been naïve in Wonderland. Had I really learned anything since then? Or was I making the same mistakes again—only this time without the drugs and sex?

The bar was comfortably busy for a Tuesday evening. I did a sweep of the room before taking another step, bracing myself for the familiar disappointment. I vowed not to get drunk and ring Arthur in a temper, reminding myself that finding myself without a private detective would be worse than dealing with a potentially bad one.

Two dark-haired women who could have been sisters occupied a booth to my right. A subdued hen party huddled in the opposite corner, the bride looking as though she’d rather be somewhere else. Hopefully, she’d have more fun at the wedding. A group that looked like tourists laughed too loudly in the center of the room, while a couple stared into each other’s eyes at the next table. The remaining patrons were suited office workers enjoying drinks after work.

Only one person sat at the bar.

A man.

My heart skipped a beat.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Which was a ridiculous thought. Finding him was the only reason I’d crossed half of Europe. It was like digging up a grave and expecting not to find a skeleton. Still, that didn’t stop me from staring at the back of the dark head and trying to find evidence I was mistaken.

He shifted slightly on his stool, bringing his profile into view.

Nico fucking Ravenscar, the man, the enigma, and several other adjectives I could come up with as a delaying tactic. Squaring my shoulders, I crossed the room before I lost my nerve.