Page 111 of A New Days Don

A figure moves quickly into the shadows of an alley nearby. I squint, trying to decipher who it was. The fine hairs rise on the back of my neck, and when he dares to step into the light, I catch a glimpse of his greying hair and familiar round face.

Gerardo.

What the hell is he doing here?!

I run down the street without thinking, chasing after my police chief. He weaves through a dozen people who are milling about on the sidewalk, but they unintentionally block me as I try to follow. My foot steps off the sidewalk, but before I can veer around the group of people onto the street, a firm hold tugs me back into a solid wall of muscle.

“What are you doing?!” Massimo growls as a car whizzes past, making my breath catch in my throat.

“Gerardo was here!” I shout back, frustration bubbling in my veins.

“Who?”

“My police chief,” I tug Massimo through the crowd, frantically checking down the street and around the corner.

He’s not there.

Where the hell did he go?

“Mila, let's go,” Massimo grits out, “We will find him once we have a better plan than you running into the middle of a street.”

Why would Gerardo be down here? And better yet, if he was here for legitimate reasons, why did he run?

I would never have recognized him if he had stayed in the shadows, but instead, he wanted me to catch him.

He wanted me to know it was him.

Massimo drives far too fast on the downtown streets, but I am too caught up in putting the puzzle pieces together to comment.

“Ren,” Massimo clips. It’s short and sweet, but Ren seems to understand because his fingers click loudly through the phone as he types furiously.

“I am still sifting through camera footage across the city for a woman with the features you gave me.” His voice is faraway and distracted as he continues to search for, presumably, Jazzy.

“We are headed to check some of the past dump sites,” Massimo says quietly, as if coming down a few decibels will soften the blow of the reality.

We aren’t looking for a living Jazzy.

“Adriano and Caleb are reaching out to a few contacts to see if they have seen her.” Ren offers, breaking through the deafening silence like the only line of hope we have left.

Massimo rests his large palm on my thigh, the warmth seeping through my pants. My body instinctively leans into his touch, chasing the comfort as we pull up to the first dumpsite on the side of a rather busy road. I doubt our killer would dump another body here. This was mostly an accident. A frenzied kill leading to a sloppy, shallow grave. This one should have given us all the clues we needed if it weren’t for Gale Robbins vomiting and stomping all over the scene in an attempt to save her. Something as sloppy as this would have left witnesses, DNA, and shoe prints.

Careful not to disturb anything in case Jazzy is here, I hesitantly look for any hint that she may have been dumped here. I hold my breath, but as suspected, there is nothing here.

“Nothing.” I clear my throat, stepping back into the vehicle with Massimo.

We continue, Ren still on the line.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and every muscle fibre in my body stiffens. Even though I haven’t checked my phone, I somehow know exactly who is texting me. It is too perfect not to be. My unknown texter always seems to be one step ahead of me, ready to give vexing pieces of information that are enough to make me feel like I’m getting closer, but not enough to unravel this whole situation.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

My heart beats heavy in my chest, “La Cochon Rouge.”