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I’m dialing before I can stop myself.
“A bit late for a phone call, Jacob. Turning into a night owl?”
More like an insomniac. “I need your help.”
The woman on the other end of the line chuckles. “Oh, really? Well, I hear you might have some space in your suite for the next playoff game.”
“How many tickets do you need, Vicky? Say the word and they’re yours.”
“Ooh, someone is desperate. My husband and I, if you can spare two. Now, what is this favor? Nothing illegal? Your father taught you better than that.”
I close my eyes. If only they knew how much illegal shit I’ve got into over the years… I’d be thrown in jail faster than I could snap my fingers.
Vicky has worked night shifts in the emergency dispatch center as long as I can remember. She was also my babysitter on the weekends and a long-time family friend. If I can’t trust her to help me find Melody, I can’t trust anyone. Besides my friends—they’re always the exception to the rule.
“I need help finding a woman.”
She hums. “So, bordering on illegal. At the very least, a little invasive. I can’t just give you—”
“She has amnesia, Vicky. Please.”
“Jacob.”
Ugh.Pity.
I pull my phone away from my ear and twist my lips. I know what she’s going to say, but I don’t want to hear it. I never do.
“Melody Cameron,” I say.
I rattle off her birthday—September 3rd—and where I last saw her. At the game. She was wearing a Titans sweatshirt, but it didn’t make sense.
She doesn’t even like hockey.
Did she find that out when she watched the game? Did she wince at every hit?
Vicky sighs. “There’s nothing in the system. But it’s not a federal database, I just have access to county records.”
And she’s in a precinct of lower Manhattan. A far cry from Denver, Colorado.
“Okay, thanks for checking. I’ll send over those tickets in the morning.”
“Thanks, honey. Sleep well.” She disconnects.
I toss my phone back on the nightstand and jump out of bed. Exhaustion is still lingering, pressing down on me, but my adrenaline is pumping.
I just need to find her.
But when I replay our short conversation, something else stands out. She has questions. She was so curious for me to tell her anything at all, she followed a stranger away from the public. I’ve walked those halls to get down to the locker room—it’s not particularly enticing or designed with female safety in mind. Anything could’ve happened to her.
How vulnerable is she like this?
I take the elevator down to the fitness room and hop on the treadmill. My anger is surging again, quickening my stride until I’m sprinting flat-out.
She knows how to find me.
I just have to hope she will.
3
