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“Yes?”
“Then there isn’t time for you to grab my dick like that.” I kiss her softly one more time, then leave her on the counter and step back. “Do you want me to make you a shake for breakfast?”
“It’s not really what I want, but I guess,” she mutters.
Jesus, where the fuck did this woman come from? With a shake of my head and a smile on my face, I walk to the fridge and get out the stuff I need, then carry it over to where she’s sitting, since she’s next to the blender. Then I make her a shake to take with her and walk her out to her car, where I kiss her goodbye and promise to see her this evening when I get off work.
Chapter 17:
Romey
Wyatt
Sitting in my cruiser, I scan over the missing person report for Romey Tyson, a sixteen-year-old female with an extensive history of running away. For a few years, she’s been living with a foster family, and every few months she disappears for a few days before showing back up again. Only this time she hasn’t come back, and no one has seen or heard from her in almost a week. After reading over her family information and the report that her foster mom made, I shut off the engine of my cruiser and push open my door. Walking up to the house, I take a quick look up and down the street. Prim Ridge is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Gooseberry and is quiet, with just a few houses on the block, all the lots two acres or more and all the homes two stories and brick. When I reach the front door, I knock, then ring the bell. I don’t have to wait long before a guy who looks to be in his twenties comes to the door, looking like he just woke up.
“Uh, can I help you?” he asks after sweeping his eyes over my uniform and the gun at my hip.
“I’m here to speak with Barbra Miller about Romey.”
“Oh.” He turns and looks over his shoulder before meeting my gaze. “I think she’s on the phone. If you give me a second, I’ll get her for you.”
“Do you mind if I wait inside?” I ask, and he hesitates before stepping back and holding the door open. Walking into the house, I watch him disappear down a hall before I take the time alone to look around. The house is clean and organized but feels like a home—there are coats and kid items left forgotten on the stand next to the front door, mail in a stack next to a bowl of keys, and things in piles here and there. I walk into the living room and scan the shelves on either side of the fireplace. Almost every framed photo includes Romey, the kid who opened the door to me, and two young boys, showing that she’s not just a foster kid living in the house, she’s been included as part of the family.
So what went wrong?
“Hello?” a woman calls, and I turn to watch a middle-aged woman with dark hair, wearing loafers, jeans, and a loose button-down top, walk into the room.
“Mrs. Miller.” I go to her and hold out my hand. “I’m Wyatt Foster.”
“Mr. Foster.” The smile she offers is filled with sadness. “Would you like to sit?”
“Sure.” I walk with her over to the couch and take a seat, angling my body in her direction. “As you know, I’m here about Romey.” I take the pen out of my shirt pocket. “Can you tell me a little about your relationship and what the day before she ran away was like?”
“Umm.” She wrings her hands together. “I would like to think that we have a close relationship. She has lived with us since the day before her eleventh birthday, and for the most part things are good.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to think we have a perfect relationship—we have argued more than a few times over the years—but she’s grown up under my roof, and I have always treated her like one of my kids.” Tears fill her eyes. “She is one of my kids, so she gets in trouble if she doesn’t do her homework or clean up her room, the same way the boys do.”
“How does she react when she gets in trouble?”
“Like any other kid, she gets upset, but we’ve always been able to talk things out.”
“Did she get in trouble before she took off this time?”
“No.” She leans forward and grabs a few Kleenex from the tissue box on the coffee table. “There was no fight. Things were normal. We all had dinner together, then her and the boys went out and jumped on the trampoline for about an hour before they came in and got ready for bed. I had some work stuff going on, so I was late going in to tell her and her broth . . .”—she cuts herself off—“the boys good night. When I finally made it to her room, she was up reading. I gave her a hug and told her I loved her, and she told me the same before I left her to go to bed myself.” She looks out the window. “When I stopped by her room in the morning to make sure she was up and getting ready for school, she wasn’t in bed. I didn’t think much about it. Sometimes she likes to get up early in the mornings and have breakfast before everyone. It wasn’t until I went downstairs and didn’t see her that I searched the house and outside. That’s when I realized she was gone.”
“She’s taken off before?”
“Yes, but she’s never been gone this long.” She swallows. “Something is wrong. I know that you might not believe me because she has run away before, but something is wrong.”
“Does she have a boyfriend?”
“No, or not one that she’s told me about, and I asked her friends that same question, and they said that she wasn’t seeing anyone.”
“None of her friends have heard from her?”
“No, her best friend Bri, who lives a couple houses over, told me just yesterday that she hasn’t heard from her, and she is the one person who she would call.”
“You believe her?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
