AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“He’s young. Maybe he’s still out exploring.” It makes me a proper asshole, feeding lies to a fellow parent, yet something like this was bound to happen. He was never satisfied with his position in life, always wanting more. Willing to latch onto anybody who could help him live the lifestyle he wanted. A professional user. If not me, somebody else was bound to get tired of his bullshit and put an end to his miserable life.
“For this long, without saying a word or reaching out to me?” The desperation rings in his voice. Soon he’ll be panicking. “When can I talk to Tatum? I’m sure she knows something. If not, what perhaps his plans were, or maybe who he went off with?”
“Jeff, I didn’t want to bring this into it, but Tatum gave me the idea when she returned home that things had ended badly between them while they were on the trip. Hence her coming home alone.” From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Romero turning toward the window. “I don’t know if she’d want to discuss Kristoff’s whereabouts even if she had the first clue about them–considering she’s been home for weeks. I doubt she’d be able to offer much insight on who he’s spent his time with lately.”
“Are you saying they broke up?”
“I wouldn’t put words into her mouth, though it seems that way.” Jeff’s sputtering comes as no surprise.
“That doesn’t sound like him. He was crazy about her.”
My hand clenches the receiver, tight. Crazy. What a fitting choice of words. “Who’s to say what happened once he met new friends while they were traveling? Tatum seemed satisfied to let things go. I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you, and I’m afraid questioning her on this would only reopen old wounds. From the way she made it sound, though, he was enjoying himself out.”
“He was supposed to fly home, damn it.”
“Do you have confirmation he returned?” Romero looks over his shoulder at me curiously. I have no doubt he covered up all traces of that prick, but it’s the sort of question I’d ask if I was nothing but an innocent third party.
“No,” he mutters. “I swear, if he gets caught up with a group of Eurotrash kids, I’ll lose my goddamn mind.”
I force a chuckle while envisioning the miserable, bleeding wreck I left behind after paying him a visit. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Observing that flashy lifestyle is tempting. You have my word. If I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Thanks, Callum. And please wish my best to Tatum.”
Right. I’ll be sure to extend it.
By the time I hang up, there’s no question of what must be done. Romero's hard, stony expression tells me we’re on the same page.
It’s time to pay another visit to Kristoff and find out how eager he is to continue living.
“How is he today?” I eye the closed office door tucked into the corner of one of our warehouses. There’s no evidence of his presence elsewhere–the stacked crates and pallets of merchandise waiting to be moved are the same as ever.
The pair of guards seated in front of the locked door exchange glances before shrugging. “Pissed off,” one of them grunts. “Always asking for shit.”
“Like a smoke or a walk outside,” the other explains. “Not so much the past day or two, though. I think he figured out it’s not doing him any good.”
Romero releases a bitter bark of laughter. “This fucking kid has some balls, thinking he can ask for anything. This is a five-star hotel with room service.”
He’s a survivor, or thinks he is. He believes he can talk himself out of any situation, probably because he’s had to do it countless times to infiltrate a world that doesn’t belong to him. How did I not see through him before this? Because you never paid enough attention to your daughter’s life. If anything, this twisted situation has taught me the difference between hovering protectively over her and playing an active role in her protection.
I’ll be damned if I thank the prick behind the door for showing me the light.
The guards move aside, allowing us to enter the room. It’s narrow, dimly lit, and rank with the stench of body odor and excrement. The bucket in the corner reveals the source of the latter stench, while the pathetic lump tied to a wooden chair is the source of the former.
The button-down shirt he’s wearing is now dried with bloodstains and sticks to his skin in sweaty patches. His dark hair hangs in greasy strands in front of his face, concealing most of it. Romero growls like an animal as we approach, but Kristoff refuses to lift his head.
“Don’t play it up,” I murmur, stepping in front of him. “You won’t get far using the victim act. Not with me.”
