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I'd waffled back and forth between trying to not care what had happened to the man and making myself sick with all the different scenarios to explain his disappearance. The reality was that I was desperate to know if he was alive or dead.
That desperation had landed me on Declan Barretti's stoop.
"Sorry about that," Ren said. "She's in that phase where she wants to be the first one to answer the phone every time it rings or open the door as soon as she hears the bell. Sierra isn't exactly known for her patience. She gets that from her father."
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask which father, but I managed to keep the question to myself. As it was, I was afraid of what would come out of my mouth when I finally did open it.
"Can I help you with something?" Ren finally asked. Some of the friendliness had faded from his voice.
Probably because of my own lack of social graces.
"I'm Sam Wittier," I blurted, though that hadn't been what I'd wanted to say. I'd meant to ask to see Declan. So much for thinking I was in control of myself.
Ren stiffened and what little had remained of his smile disappeared instantly. Several things flashed in his eyes at once. Pity, nervousness, and ultimately, confusion. He stepped back and opened the door all the way. "Would you like to come in?" he asked softly.
No, I really didn't. But I managed to nod and stepped forward.
I was greeted by the sound of a television playing. The little girl who'd opened the door for me came running down the hallway with what looked like the same kind of tube of yogurt that Ryan liked to eat.
"Five more minutes of TV, Sierra. And then it's bedtime."
"Okay, Daddy."
The child darted past us and disappeared into what looked like a den. It was the room where the TV was playing.
"Come on in," Ren said cautiously as he stepped around me and led me down the hallway in the direction Sierra had come from. We ended up in the kitchen. The trio lived in a townhouse rather than a single-family home, but it was spacious and bright. There were pictures everywhere and the refrigerator was covered in all sorts of children’s artwork. "Would you like something to drink?" Ren asked.
I shook my head.
An awkward silence fell between us before Ren gently said, "Did you come here to see Declan?"
My throat was thick with emotion. I hated the bitter regret that filled my belly. I’d hoped this would be easier. That I'd walk in the door and just be able to let everything go, but all the pictures of Declan smiling with his family hurt like a son of a bitch. I managed a nod and nothing more.
"Okay, I'll go get him," Ren said softly and then he hurried off, the dog trailing behind him. I wanted to turn tail and run. I wanted to not have to look at all the pictures that were proof of the happiness Declan had found. I'd dreamed of having similar pictures in my house one day of me, Mac, and our kids.
I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to look at the damning photographs. But all that did was make me think about the reason I’d come here in the first place.
I wasn't sure how much time passed before I heard heavy footsteps coming my direction. When Declan rounded the corner that led into the kitchen, he stopped and stared at me as if surprised that it really was me standing in his kitchen.
I wanted to tell him I was surprised that I was standing there too.
"Sam," he said softly. His arm was in a sling, but otherwise he looked healthy. I was glad when that made me feel relieved. I already felt like the biggest asshole on the planet for the bitterness his family pictures made me feel. At least I wasn't so far gone that I wished the man harm. And just seeing that sling reminded me of how Declan had jumped in front of Elliot. The bullet that had torn through Declan's shoulder would've hit Elliot square in the chest if Declan hadn’t done what he’d done.
The reminder of that night and the close call was the push I needed to finally open my mouth.
"I need your help," I blurted.
Declan's eyes widened almost comically, but then he quickly got control of himself and nodded. "Please, sit," he said. "What's going on?" he asked as he eased himself into a chair. Despite his suggestion that I sit, I couldn't. If I sat, I'd fall apart.
"I need to find someone. To make sure he’s okay. But I don't know how to do that." My mind automatically went to the terrible image that had been haunting me for the past two weeks—Matias's body lying in a ditch somewhere, his lifeless eyes staring at nothing.
