AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Poppy moving onto the sidewalk with hunched shoulders and a sad face. That might be the final image anyone had of her.
My gaze slipped away from her for a moment, something in the corner of the frame catching my attention.
A dark shadow of a man across the street, half-hidden behind a tall tree.
"Hey, rewind this," I said, stabbing my finger at the screen.
Nia let out a little grumble at me poking her equipment, but didn't say anything, knowing I was past the point of rationality right then.
"The guy?" she asked. "I clocked him. He seems like he's hanging out. Nothing crazy. He showed up like ten minutes after Poppy did."
"Did he head in the direction she did after she left?"
"He's out of the frame. It's possible, but she would have had quite the head start on him. It doesn't seem likely if she was his intended... what?" she asked when I hissed.
"Back a little bit more," I demanded.
"What? Do you know him?"
I did.
Well, I'd met him. But only in passing. I'd barely been paying attention to him. My focus had been so glued to Poppy. And the filthy coffee house.
"Blake," I said, seeing the man's features pretty well when he looked over at the police station just as Poppy was exiting. "That mother fucker," I snapped, having to curl my hands into fists to keep from picking something up off of Nia's desk, and hauling it at the wall.
"Blake?" Nia asked, zooming in on the image. "Blake what?
"Blake. Her friend Blake!"
"Yelling the same thing at me over and over again isn't helping me," Nia told me, surprisingly calm, clearly trying to get me to rein it in. "I need more," she added, voice softer than usual.
"Fuck. I..." I trailed off. I couldn't think straight. All I could think about was Poppy in the hands of someone she thought she could trust, someone whose intentions were unclear. Was he just obsessed with her? Just wanted her attention? She would still be alive then. Was he angry because he wanted more from her, because he thought she'd rejected him? I didn't want to think what might be happening to her if that was the case.
"Finn, focus," Nia demanded. "What do you know about Blake?"
"He's friends with a couple named Marc and Lawrence. He's a fan of hers."
"I might be able to find him on her social media," Nia said, hopping screens to bring up Poppy's social media. I felt my heart swell, then crush, in my chest at her latest image which was of her and Yogurt sitting on the steps of her back porch in the early morning sunlight. If you looked really closely, you could see me through the window to the kitchen, making her a cup of coffee.
Fuck.
I wanted that back.
I wanted her back.
Back with me, yes.
But more so, back in her home, with her dog, where her loved ones knew she was okay.
"I'm not seeing a Blake, but it looks like she is only following other true crime creators. I will check out her followers, but this is a lot of people. There are likely a lot of Blakes. Just give me a bit," she said.
Blake.
Did anyone tell me his last name?
No.
No one introduced themselves with last names anymore.
But there was a memory niggling at the corners of my mind.
During the interview period of the night, one of the new girls had asked him his name, then had gone all "bad cop" and demanded his full name.
"Blake Carney," I blurted out. "It could have been a fake name. But Carney."
"Carney," Nia repeated, typing it in. "This is him, right?" she asked, bringing up a profile.
"Yeah. That's him. Give me an address," I demanded, already making my way toward the door.
"Finn..."
"Give me a fucking address," I snapped.
"Okay," she said, typing again. "But I will be calling Quin, and he might be calling Lloyd, so you know, maybe don't kill him."
"That'll all depend on what he's done to her," I told her, my hands clenching and unclenching as adrenaline surged through my body.
"But..." she started.
But it was too late.
I was already gone.
I had to get my girl back.
Chapter Fifteen
Poppy
I woke up shivering with a headache stabbing in my temples.
As soon as my eyelids opened, the churning in my stomach had me stumbling up onto my hands and knees as the bile rose up.
Throwing up was never pleasant.
It was even worse when you had a splitting migraine, and absolutely no idea where you were.
All I could tell you was that I was in a basement with cement floors and cinder block walls. That perpetual cool dampness that was signature to basements seemed to seep into my bones, making the shivering intensify once my stomach was empty.
I moved as far away from my vomit as possible, curling into a corner for a moment, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes to try to ease some of the pain.
