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If I had just paid more attention I would have known Britt wasn’t here. She doesn’t use her car very often, usually walking to and from work just the same as I jog every day. Traffic is a bitch around here and taking a car makes very little sense. So Britt went somewhere a little further than the gym. Where would she go?
Fuck. I don’t really know jack shit about her. Not really. How can a person get so completely under my skin and invade my soul without me knowing such simple things as her favorite restaurant, or hobbies, or even if she has any family? Because I’m a selfish prick, that’s why. Wait…
Family.
With a new plan in place, I jerk the car into gear and head for the gym.
“Come on, Roxie. You helped me before. Why can’t you help me again?” I lean on the front counter where the tall woman is manning the juice bar, blending up a shake for another f
ighter.
“Killer,” she says as she pours the thick pink liquid into a tall cup and hands it to the guy at the other end of the bar. “It doesn’t feel right to invade Britt’s privacy like that. Besides, it could get me fired.”
I growl, slamming a fist down on the counter hard enough to rattle the glassware. “Fuck privacy! I need to talk to her. It’s urgent!”
Roxie frowns, looking at me but not looking at me. Not at my eyes anyway. She’s staring somewhere around chest level so she won’t have to see the monster. But the monster is gone. At least for now. The monster wouldn’t give a shit about Britt or the shooting or anything. Keller does.
“Roxie, look at me.” She flinches, hesitant to do as I ask. “Please?”
Roxie bites her lip and reluctantly flicks her eyes up to mine. For once, she doesn’t look away. I don’t see the fear that transpires when people look into my eyes. No, Roxie’s expression softens. She looks… sympathetic.
“Killer. Get Gabriel’s permission and I’ll give you what you want. Okay? That’s the best I can do.” Roxie reaches out and pats my hand before turning to the sink to wash out the blender.
Gabriel isn’t here on Sundays unless a fight is coming up, so I whip out my cell phone, find his contact, and hit send. It rings so many times, I’m about to give up when the call connects.
“Fala.”
I nearly sink to my knees in relief.
“Gabriel, it’s Killer. I need your help,” I rattle in rapid-fire Portuguese.
“Killer? What is the matter? Are you okay?” The man sounds genuinely concerned for me, something I haven’t heard from another person in over ten years.
“No,” I say, my throat closing up as I think about Britt. “It’s… it’s Britt. I screwed up, Gabriel. I need to see her. It’s very important.”
“So go see her,” he says simply.
“She’s not home,” I explain. “And she won’t answer her phone.”
“I see.”
“I need… I need you to allow Roxie to show me her emergency contact.” I swallow nervously, praying Gabriel understands the importance of the situation. “I think something really bad is going on with her.” My voice cracks and I rub my forehead. “She saw something at my place, something… personal. It shouldn’t have meant anything to her, but she freaked out and left. Gabriel, it scared the shit out of me.”
“You? You are scared? Meu Dios. Nothing scares you.”
“Gabriel…” I’m becoming desperate, which makes me angry. It’s impossible to keep him from hearing the hostility.
“Tell Roxie to give you whatever you need,” he says and I let out a long breath.
“She’ll want to hear it from you. Hold on.” I catch Roxie’s attention and hand her the phone. Roxie nods and keeps saying “okay” over and over.
“Here.” She hands me back my phone. “Let me get the employee binder.”
Five minutes later, I’m clutching a scrap of paper with the address for Britt’s parents. It takes about twenty minutes to get there. If it were a weekday it would be more like forty-five and I’d be frothing at the mouth by the time I arrived.
I pull into a long curving drive and stop out front. Gaping, I stare at the enormous structure. Britt is so quiet and understated, the house isn’t at all what I was expecting. In fact, it reminds me of the house I grew up in. One of those huge, cold mansions filled with expensive things and showy displays of wealth but containing no love or warmth. Nothing to make it an actual home. I don’t see Britt’s shiny red BMW. She’s not here.
“Jesus,” I mutter, looking down at my shorts and shirt. I’m woefully underdressed to approach anyone who lives inside this house, let alone ask questions about their daughter. Money is all about appearance. That’s what my mom lived and preached. Fat lot of fucking good it did her.
