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“Yeah. No,” I immediately correct, knowing that as much as drinking away this pain sounds like a good idea, I can’t afford to impair my judgment.
Brandon nods, not saying anything more as he stands there watching me eat. “I was thinking,” he eventually says, “maybe we should hire a private investigator?”
I look up at him, my fork paused halfway between my plate and my mouth. “Do you know of one?” I ask.
He shrugs. “No, never had to use one, but you know…maybe we could find one?”
“Fuck, I don’t know,” I say, dropping my fork onto the plate and pushing it away. I’ve barely eaten any of it, but I ignore the pointed look he gives me. “Maybe it might—”
The rest of my words are cut off by the sound of the doorbell, the noise echoing through my house as I get up and practically run to the door. Zoey’s keys to my house were still in her overnight bag, so I know she can’t just walk in like I’m hoping she wants to do. Yanking it open, my heart pounding in my chest, I feel the tiny seed of hope deflate the second I see the FedEx delivery guy.
“Mr. Morrison?” he asks, looking down at his electronic thing.
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“For you,” he says, handing me a large envelope.
He nods, not bothering to wait for a response before he turns and heads back to his van. Glancing down at the envelope in my hand, I see it’s been handwritten. Flipping the envelope over, I notice no return address.
“What is it?” Brandon asks.
“No idea,” I reply, closing the front door before I walk back to the kitchen. I pull on the tab, ripping open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper and when I pull it out and see what it is, I swear my fucking heart stops.
“Ethan?” he now asks, moving to stand beside me, his hand moving to pick up the sheet of paper.
“Don’t,” I say, my hand on his arm. “Don’t touch it.”
He pulls his hand back as his eyes scan the typed lines on the page. There aren’t many, but there are enough to make their point. A ransom note, demanding money in return for getting Zoey back. Just looking at the words is enough to make my blood boil.
“You need to call the police,” Brandon says, his words quiet but firm. “Right now.”
Swallowing hard, I pull my phone from the pocket of my jeans, grateful the detective gave it back to me before he left last night. He also gave me Zoey’s, which surprised me, but I wasn’t about to argue.
“Yeah,” I say, my thumb swiping across the screen about a second before it starts to ring, Jeff Holden’s name flashing up on the screen. “Hello,” I say, answering.
“Ethan, it’s Jeff Holden,” he says quickly. We’d exchanged numbers last night before I’d left in case anything came up. “Listen, I need to ask you something. Did you get—”
“A ransom note?” I ask, instinctively knowing why he’s calling me.
“Yes,” he says, letting out a hard breath.
“Yeah, I did,” I say. “It just arrived. I was about to call the police.”
“I already have,” Jeff explains. “Detective Simmons is on his way over to look at it.”
I’m nodding even though he can’t see me. “I should show him mine,” I say, having no fucking clue how any of this works.
“Yes, why don’t you come over here,” he continues. “I’ll text you our address.”
“I’m on my way,” I say, glancing at my best friend. Brandon just nods, already walking out of the kitchen. I say goodbye to Jeff before hanging up, my gaze returning to the note that sits on the kitchen counter.
I wish to fuck I hadn’t touched the thing, but god knows if it will have made a difference. If it’s been sent by courier, it’s bound to have gone through multiple changes of hands, so who the fuck knows if there’s anything useful on it.
Can they even get fingerprints off a fucking letter anyway?
“You should put that in a Ziploc bag,” Brandon says, walking back into the kitchen, his shoes now on. “Don’t touch it.”
I let out a quick laugh, shaking my head at the way he’s just verbalized exactly what I was thinking. I grab a bag from the bottom drawer, before opening the second one and taking out the kitchen tongs. I carefully pick up the letter and the envelope it came in, putting them both in the Ziploc bag.
