careers. Something like that is too personal and bloody.
We watch as moments later, Nathan stalks out of the room, his body language tense, his chest heaving like he’s out of breath. Then a few minutes later, Nicky comes out clutching her cheek.
“My God,” Cole mutters. The bruise on Nicky’s face from four days ago wasn’t there because she fought with Courtney; Nathan beat her that night.
The fuck. If he laid a finger on Mia. Jesus… this is fucked up.
“How did we not see that?” Cole questions, disbelief in his voice.
“How could we, when she decided to cover her bruises up by picking a fight with my karate loving mother?”
“Okay, so, where is she? Where is Mia?” Cole questions.
I keep staring at the screen minutes after Nicky and Nathan are gone but I know Mia’s not coming out of that room.
She’s not coming out because she’s not in there. She must have used the back door, but why? Did something happen with Nathan or did something happen with Nicky before Nathan entered the room?
“I think we need to pay the grieving aunt/fake mother a little visit, don’t you think?” I seethe.
“You think a woman like that will talk?” Cole mutters, straightening up now. “Besides, isn’t she still at the funeral home getting ready for tomorrow?”
“I don’t care where she is, I’ll hunt her down if I have to. We should’ve demanded answers from her that morning. She obviously knows where Mia is.”
“And if she refuses to tell us? Which, in case you haven’t added in your shitty calculations, is highly likely, what then?”
“We just have to make sure not to take no for an answer.”
Cole passes me the last bit of the blunt. I take a long, drawn out hit before stomping the thing under my boot.
“What’s going to happen with her now that we know your father never loved her?”
“That right there, is what I want to see.”
And with that, we get in our cars and speed back toward the house. Cole really doesn’t have to come with me, but I know why he’s been spending time with me lately, watching me closely like I’m a recovering meth addict.
He thinks I might go off my rails—he isn’t wrong—but mostly it’s because he doesn’t want to face his sister at home.
Family is a pain the ass.
12
In my rush to question Nicky, I completely miss the other car parked in the driveway. All I know right now is four days have passed without Mia is ninety-six hours too long and it ends now, no matter where she is.
So, when Cole and I get in the house and head for dad’s office—because let’s face it, a guilty asshole is a cooperative asshole. He’ll definitely know where the woman he’s been using is—it takes me all but three seconds to sense that something isn’t right.
Before I take another step, something shifts from the corner of my eye. When I turn to look at what the hell it is, a tightly clenched fist comes flying straight for my jaw.
On impulse, I duck easily enough and then shift around, light on my toes, evading the next sloppy punch aimed at my gut and then I come face to face with Nathan Montague.
The man is drunk, I can smell the stench of scotch from where I’m standing, watching him closely.
“You!” he barks, waving a shaky finger at me. He’s unsteady on his feet, shifting from place to place like he’s going to fall flat on his face. If he chooses to fall on his back, he’ll definitely crack his thick skull. Either one would be fine by me, I don’t particularly care. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Mr. Montague, please calm down,” Cole says, regarding Mia’s father like one would a bomb that’s about to go off.
“Shut up!” Nathan bellows, turning around to wave that same finger at Cole. “Stay out of this!”
He turns around to stare at me with bloodshot eyes, the rage there making me tense up and it all makes sense. He was here waiting in the shadows of my home, waiting for me. Why is he here and who gave him privileges to drive up to the house and enter it like it’s his?
“You fucking bastard!” Nathan shouts, his eyes bloodshot and wide. “Where is my daughter?”
Something in the way he demands that makes it seem like he doesn’t particularly care about his daughter but that he controls her. That’s what abusers have in common, a shitty sense of entitlement.
So, let’s play, Nathan. Maybe