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I paced with my hands on my head, ready to jump out of my skin, needing information about Miranda. Not only on her whereabouts but what she had been doing all this time.
Yesterday I’d received a call from Cori that Jason had another meeting in TJ. The first one she’d mentioned when we returned to L.A. had flopped. More lies. But of course, I had played along like I was disappointed and frustrated. All the same old shit as if I didn’t know anything.
Axel had tailed Jason all day. What was odd and perplexing to everyone was that not once had Axel been able to catch Jason talking to Cori or Abe. No phone calls, emails, or in-person meetings. We were beginning to wonder if the three were connected at all.
We might find out Monday evening. According to Cori, there was to be a transfer of goods. What kind of goods wasn’t specified, but I assumed it was money. When I’d relayed the information to Axel, I was instructed to play nice with Cori. If something was about to go down, I was confident York and his crew would be there, ready to catch Jason.
A firm double knock on my door jolted me. Before I could stride across the room, it opened.
“William,” my father greeted, entering with York on his heels. They appeared calm. It pissed me off because they knew how important this meeting was to me.
“Where’s Axel?” I asked in a harsh tone.
“He’s running a little late. We’ll start without him.”
“Do either of you want coffee?” I asked, trying to keep a level head and show my father I was in control of my emotions again.
“Yes, black for both of us,” my father answered. To not waste time, I went and got the coffee myself. Thirty seconds later, I was seated in the chair across from my dad and York.
I recalled when York arrived to work for my father a decade ago. He’d just retired from the CIA. Back then, he was fierce and at the top of his game. Today, York looked exhausted. Deep lines were etched into his leathery face, perhaps a map of the danger and death from his prior career. Deep-set eyes with dark circles and puffy bags were evidence of the high-stress life he lived. He probably didn’t sleep much. I knew something about that. I was sure I looked just as spent.
“How are you doing?” my father asked, giving me a pointed look.
“I’m fine. Let’s get on with it.” I wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. I turned my attention to York. “What did you find out?”
“She’s fine,” York answered evenly, then started coughing. His dry, raspy voice gave him away as a heavy smoker. I hoped he’d be able to speak more than two words at a time. “Sorry.” He sipped the coffee. After clearing his throat, he continued. “I watched her all week. Her routine seems to be solid and unchanging.” That didn’t surprise me. Miranda’s daily schedule never changed. She had said having a routine kept her productive, and that it did. What she accomplished in a day would put most people to shame, including me.
“So what is she doing there?” I asked.
“At eight in the morning, she drives through Starbucks and orders a decaf skinny latte before going to work.”
“How do you know she orders a decaf skinny latte?”Decaf?Miranda loved her caffeine.
York rolled his eyes. “I heard the barista verify her order through the speaker. I was only two cars behind her.”
“Oh. Well, how does she look? Sad? Healthy? Happy?” God, I hoped she didn’t look happy.
“She looks normal.”
I sighed, biting my tongue so I didn’t lash out at him. Normal? I needed more than a generic word.
“Once at work, she takes her coffee for a stroll through the neighborhood. The first morning I watched her, she was on the phone, smiling and laughing. She wiped away tears toward the end.”
My heart seized. I hated it when Miranda cried, especially when it had to do with me. “Do you know who she was talking to?”
“No. But I’m working on it.”
“What else?” I hoped he had more information. I needed more.
“The second day she took her walk it appeared uneventful—no phone call. At noon, lunchtime, she leaves with a young woman, Brea Watson. Brea is an employee at Radiance and a student at Whitworth College. They seem to be friends.” He shrugged. “During lunch, they talk and laugh as friends would do.” York coughed again.
While he hacked up a lung, all I could think of was Miranda getting on with her life. She had a job, a new routine, and was making friends. She was moving on… without me.
“Here, look at these.” My father passed over a black folder.
Inside were pictures of Miranda walking and talking on the phone while she laughed, wiping tears off her face. My God, she was beautiful. In every photo, she was as stunning as ever. The last picture was of a little house.
“Is this where she lives?” I asked, holding up the photo toward York.
