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“You wantto tell me what’s going on with you?”
I stare across the desk at William, the principal of Southport High for the last ten years. William is a nice guy and a good boss who doesn’t put up with any shit, from students and teachers alike.
“Let me guess,” I drone. “Lucas Sinclair’s father called you?”
“Of course he fucking did,” William roars. “You suspended our biggest donor’s kid over some petty comment about having your phone on in class? What the hell is going on with you, Sam?” He shakes his head in dismay.
“I suspended him because of the language he used after I gave him the detention,” I correct him, digging myself an even deeper hole.
“I don’t care what the fuck he did. You can’t suspend anyone. You have a problem with the kid, you send him to me. You know the rules.” He sighs, clasping his hands together on the desk. “I’m genuinely worried about you, Sam, and I’m not the only one. You’re not yourself. Is everything okay?”
“I’m just going through some personal things.” I don’t want to go into detail, especially considering my relationship with Chloe. I expect him to push me for more information, but instead, he just nods.
“Then take a few days off,” he instructs. “Clear your head. I’ll call in a substitute to cover your classes.”
I know there’s no point in arguing, so I give him a curt nod.
“Fine.”
* * *
With the restof the day at my disposal, I head for my car with a plan; I’m going to the hotel to make sure Chloe is okay. The lack of contact, not seeing her at school, her being totally missing in action has me growing steadily more nervous and worried by the minute. The only way I can let this go is to know for sure that she’s safe.
“Chloe? It’s me,” I say as I knock softly on her door.
I wait a few minutes and when she doesn’t answer, I reach into my wallet for the spare key I put there, just in case. I paid for the room, after all, so I’m not breaking any laws. And it’s not an invasion of her privacy if I’m worried about her safety, right?
I swipe the key across the lock and the door clicks. Turning the handle, I push it open and step inside. The room is dark, but even with little light I know she’s gone. A strange, empty feeling consumes me. It’s as if hell itself is opening at my feet, pulling me down like deadly quicksand and there’s not a damn thing I can do about anything. The only sign she’s been here at all is the sweet scent of her perfume lingering in the air. Like a creep, I breathe it in, filling my lungs with as much of her smell as possible, then I back out of the room.
Eyeing the reception, I walk over, thinking about how this is going to look. I’m sure I’m not the first man to rock up to the receptionist and ask if the young girl he rented a room for has checked out and I probably won’t be the last. Still, I’m doing a poor job ofnotmaking myself feel like the creepy teacher who is fucking his student.
“Afternoon,” I say with a confident smile as I approach the desk. “My daughter was staying in room twenty-three. It seems she checked out. Can you tell me when she left?”
The woman’s warm brown eyes narrow and her brows scrunch together, like she’s suspicious of me. Hell, I would be too.
“Nope.” She points to a key box at the front of the hotel. “Most of the guests just use that. I’m guessing your ‘daughter’ did too.”
“Right. Thanks for your help,” I mutter.
Turning on my heel, I leave the reception area, the panic thumping in my chest leaving my brain foggy and me unable to think clearly. If my key still worked, she can’t have left too long ago. I open the car door and climb inside, then I pick up my phone and call Isaac.
“Hey, Sam, what’s up?”
I brush aside his casual friendliness and get right to the point.
“Can you do me a favour?”
I turn the engine over, not sure where I plan to drive yet, but I need to feel like I’m doing something to find her. I think about where she might have gone, which turns out to be a bad move, because now my mind is consumed with all sorts of horrible scenarios she might have found herself in. She was almost raped in a park, for fuck’s sake. She needs someone looking out for her. A sense of dread fills me, not so different from the helpless dread I experienced when my sister disappeared.
“Sure, what do you need?”
Though he’s quick to offer, there’s a note of hesitancy in his voice. He knows something is going on, but I don’t care. Right now, I don’t need a friend. I need his cop instincts.
“I need to know if a woman checked out of a hotel room alone.”
What if someone kidnapped her? What if that person who beat her up found her? Or what if she wound up arrested for something? Obviously, she wasn’t living a safe, healthy lifestyle; our relationship—no, her blackmailing me—proves that.
“You think Marissa is cheating on you?” He doesn’t entirely sound shocked by that.
