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Okay, before I dig deeper into this, I need to see what else I can find. The local police might know something about this. Having a body show up right outside this town has to mean something.
Without thinking twice, I head out the door, hop into my car, and drive to the local police station to see what else I can get from the sheriff.
When I arrive, the sheriff looks like and sounds like everything I expect from a small-town sheriff. One where they don’t like outsiders.
He’s older. White hair and a pot belly.
His face weathered from years of service.
“Hi, Sheriff Michaels, I was wondering if I can speak to you about Cynthia Richards. I know she grew up—”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Layla Marks, a journalist from New York—”
“Stop right there, missy. This is a small, peaceful town. We don’t want you city folk causing problems.”
“I just wanted to ask you—”
“No. We don’t talk to reporters. We already have the FBI breathing down our necks because the body was found only twenty miles from town. That, coupled with the fact that she grew up here. No. I won’t speak to you. We don’t need more reporters poking around. This town has been quiet for years. We don’t need to stir the pot again.” He moves to walk away and turns his back on me.
“Again? What do you mean again? Did something happen here?”
“No. I misspoke. Now, if you have nothing else, I have other things I need to do. I expect to hear you’re gone when I come back.”
A man like this will never listen to a woman, let alone an “outsider.” I would have shown him my map, but something tells me he would have thought I was whacky.
I won’t be getting any help from the sheriff, but there must be someone who can help me find out more about Cynthia. Someone who isn’t too afraid to talk to a reporter.
I walk out of the station and look around the small town. I squint my eyes and look at the stone building across the street and down a block.
39
Cain
Something is wrong with Layla, and I need to know what.
When we hung up the other night, Layla seemed off. No one can slide a lie past me, especially her. My paranoia spiked this morning when she didn’t answer my calls or texts.
When I still couldn’t get in touch with her after I called the magazine, I decided to drive to the city.
Hours later, I’m here, standing outside her apartment, banging on the door.
But like before, she doesn’t answer me. Where the fucking hell is she?
Sighing in frustration, I make my way down the three flights of stairs until I reach the basement. I head down the hallway, searching for the superintendent of the building to let me into her apartment.
I find the man in a small office, looking over some bills.
“Hello.” I walk in. “I need your help.”
He lifts his brow, but he doesn’t seem to care, so I reach into my pocket and grab a stack of bills. Two hundred dollars should get this guy to move his ass.
“I need you to let me into Layla Marks’s apartment. Apartment 204.”
“I can’t do that.”
I pull out another hundred, and another, until I have one thousand dollars in my hand.
“Fine, but I didn’t let you in.”
I give him a nod. After I find Layla, I’ll let her know it’s time to change the lock, and then she needs to find another apartment and move. Maybe we can find one together.
Fuck.
What is wrong with me?
I’m already buying houses, relocating my office, and now . . . what? Moving in with her?
This isn’t good. I’m wound tight, and this obsession can’t be normal.
Or maybe it is? Maybe this is what normal people feel like when they fall in love.
I shake my head, pulling myself out of my inner rambling, and follow the super up the stairs.
When we are standing outside her doorway, he opens it and is quick to leave. Good news, I see nothing is out of place when I start to search.
When I head into her bedroom, there is still nothing wrong. I open drawers and the closet door, and that’s when I have my first inkling that she’s gone somewhere and didn’t tell me. Her overnight bag she packed for Cape May is gone.
Now, how do I find out where she went?
Her friend. The only person like family.
Mara? Yeah, Mara.
She works with her, so that’s where I’ll go. To the magazine.
Twenty minutes later, my cab pulls up to the building. I head up to her office, thankful I know my way from the last time I was here.
I don’t stop to ask if I can go in. I just swing the glass doors open and stride in like I own the place.
