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And blood on one of the handles.
“Fuck,” I hissed, turning in a circle, trying to gauge where they might have gone.
There was nothing around.
Running out in the open would get her nowhere. Especially with a weak ankle still. Sure, Ben was likely in worse shape, but he was fueled by his obsession, with his need to get his hands on her after all this time.
For fuck’s sake, he could have been jonesing for her for years. Since she was a little girl, for all anyone knew.
The disgusting fucking pig.
“She’d have gone inside. She could hide, then make a run for it when he was distracted.”
We turned and made our way in unison, but broke apart to head toward different ends of the sprawling building.
This was it.
It was almost over.
I just had to find my girl.
Then make the bastard who made her bleed pay for it.
Slowly.
Then take him out of this fucking world.
And get my girl home to help her heal.
Taking a deep breath, I moved into the building.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sylvie
“Sly Sly Sly,” Marshall said, clucking his tongue as he came in to find me damn near waist-deep in files from the cabinets that I was trying to clear out, move, and reorganize.
“I’m fine now, Marsh,” I told him as I ducked low to try to push the filing cabinet that seemed to be glued to the floor with twenty years worth of grime around the edges.
“Let me help,” he offered, coming closer and putting his weight into it.
With a little effort, we managed to move it next to the others I had relocated which freed up some much-needed space.
Then I set to the task of organizing files to shred or re-file. About five minutes into this task, I lost Marshall. Understandably, since he still really struggled with his dyslexia.
I’d been talking to Willa the night before when some of the princesses had come over for pizza, and she’d really inspired me to get Barlowe House organized. She talked about how important it was for things to work seamlessly. Eventually, she suggested all the files be scanned and uploaded for the easiest access.
I would get there eventually.
But this was a step in the right direction.
Though I was a little worried I might burn out the shredder trying to get rid of so much so quickly.
Still, after listening to her talk passionately about her work, it had really motivated me to get my shit together. Then follow her lead on how to run successful charity events. Get our social media going.
“You have to be proactive in business,” she’d claimed.
Which was fair. We’d always been reactive. The pipes burst, or the stove went, or the AC went wonky and needed fixing, so we need to run another charity event to refill our coffers. When what would be smartest would be to run more consistent events and drives to always have excess money set aside for emergencies. And maybe, someday, updates.
“Hey, Syl,” Russ said, looking around at the somewhat organized mess I had all around me. To his credit, Russ almost never questioned or doubted me. One of his many admirable qualities.
“I promise I’ll have it cleaned up by the end of the day,” I assured him, frowning when I found someone’s ring inside a file. A woman’s ring. I didn’t even remember the last time a woman worked here aside from me, and it wasn’t mine.
“I trust you. There’s someone here to see you. Your dad’s old friend,” he said, a little distracted by whatever paperback he was looking at in his hands.
“Oh, okay,” I said, moving out of the office.
Russ was moving into the living room when I came face-to-face with someone familiar, someone entirely, well, welcome.
Ben was an almost ever-present part of my childhood. From age nine until eighteen when I finally left that world and settled in Navesink Bank.
Ben was what my dad always referred to as a “gentle giant.” And he was a huge guy. Tall, wide. I swear his wrists were as big as my biceps. Bigger, maybe. And his thighs? The size of my waist.
He’d never been an overly good-looking guy, not even when he was young. He had a too-wide nose, a jiggly throat, and eyes that were placed just slightly askew. Not so much so that it jumped out at you, but it gave his overall face a sort of asymmetry that made most women just overlook him.
Time had made him a little softer in the belly, making it hang over his belt a bit more than it used to. It had also streaked a little silver into his dark hair.
I’d once, when I was small, been so familiar with him that I’d tried to call him Uncle Ben. That silly, little girlish need to feel something akin to family reared its head on occasion.
But Ben had been quick to insist that I just call him Ben.
