Cherry Creek - Dani Matthews Page 0,36

as he processes my statement. “Did you have an argument the last time you saw her?”

“No.”

“When exactly was the last time you saw her? What was the situation? Was she acting odd?” he asks as he waits expectantly for an answer.

“We were at the airport. I was getting on a plane to come here. She seemed fine,” I say as I fight the urge to fidget in the chair. Fidgeting won’t make me look calm and collected.

“Have you filed a missing person's report with the police?”

“No. I think she moved out, and it was of her own free will.”

“Then she likely doesn't want to be found,” he murmurs as he rubs his jaw before settling back in his chair. “Was she upset that you were moving?”

“No. She seemed...excited,” I confess, and that's what burns me. Had she been secretly pleased to be rid of me? I have so many questions that I want to ask when I find her.

“Why would she be excited?”

“I don't know.”

“Were you upset with her?”

“A little,” I say without thinking.

“Why?”

My mind scrambles for an answer

Mr. Capshaw studies me. “Anything you tell me is confidential,” he assures.

I think I need to just come right out and admit I'm only seventeen. He'll figure it out sooner or later, especially if he asks to see my ID, which he will if he decides to take my case. “She made my uncle my legal guardian. That's why I'm here. I had to move to live with him,” I tell him quietly.

“How old are you Miss Vauss?” he asks, his expression turning suspicious.

“I'll be eighteen in September.”

He shakes his head, setting his pen down. “I'm sorry. I can't legally take this case.”

“I'll pay you double!” I blurt.

“I can't help you.”

“Please! I'm desperate. I really need to find her,” I plead.

His eyes are apologetic as he says, “You need to be eighteen to hire a private investigator. Come back in three months.”

I rub my aching temple and look at him with disappointment. “I don't want to be here for another three months. Do you know if there might be someone else who'd be willing to help me track her down?”

He sighs, his expression betraying his reluctance to help me. “You can try Sheffield,” he says after a brief hesitation. “He takes just about any case, but you being a minor is going to be an issue for him, as well,” he points out.

I recognize the name as the other private investigator in Cherry Creek. “Thank you,” I say sincerely.

Mr. Capshaw shakes his head. “He may turn you down. He should.”

“It's worth a try,” I say as I rise to my feet.

He nods, standing up. “His office is a few blocks over on Dunhill Street. He should be there, he tends to put in late hours.”

I thank him again, then walk out of the agency and back onto the sidewalk. Since it's a nice evening, I’d decided to walk here instead of driving the three blocks from the store. It’s only another few blocks to Dunhill, so I make my way briskly down the sidewalk while hoping that Sheffield is indeed working late.

When I arrive at the doorway that announces Sheffield Investigations, I see that it lacks a closed sign. Feeling determined, I cautiously step inside. The office is much smaller than Capshaw's. The walls are painted an ugly pea green, and a large man sits behind a cluttered desk. It's a one-room office space, so I'm guessing this is Sheffield.

He looks up from where he's typing on his computer. When he sees me, he struggles to his feet. “Can I help you?”

I decide upon seeing him that honesty is the best policy with this man. He looks rough around the edges, and he has at least a three days growth of a beard. His belly hangs out, and his shirt just barely buttons over the protruding roundness of it. I can see why Mr. Capshaw suggested I try him. Sheffield looks shady. Under normal circumstances, I'd be leery of his type.

“I need to hire an investigator,” I say simply.

His beady, blue eyes flicker over my outfit, and I know he's sizing me up as a rich girl. I sure hope it works in my favor. “Have a seat,” he offers, motioning to a chair across from his desk. At his request, I walk further into the room and carefully sit down. Sheffield sits back down behind his desk, his hand running through his rumpled, dark hair. He looks at me expectantly, “So