Chapter Six

Cliff

This isn’t the first time I’ve tracked someone who didn’t want to be followed. And this girl is good. Her cell phone is off, likely with the battery out of it. It hasn’t pinged any towers since fifty miles north of Las Vegas.

Her given name is Madeline Ann Bounder, an apt name that makes me smile briefly. She’s known to friends and family as Addie. She’s twenty-three and has had a moderately successful career as a model.

There had been whisperings of her having a part in a popular Netflix drama, but it never panned out. Her parents are Dorothy—Dottie—and William Bounder. An upper-middle-class couple with upstanding reputations.

But all the information doesn’t explain what happened to her. That I can deduce, based on the little I know. This Arlo son of a bitch who doxed her is a photographer. It’s a logical leap that he leaked the pictures of her.

She might have slapped him over the images being posted, but I’m leaning away from that. It makes more sense that she slapped him over something else and ran. Throwing the images to the public is an act of revenge. Revenge for leaving, perhaps. The kind of garbage human that would do that would do it for control or to bully.

Which also tells me he’s likely an abusive bastard.

On a hunch, I pick up the phone and call Dave. He’s the clerk at a seedy motel a few blocks from the store I’d bumped into Addie at. He picks up on the eighth ring and sounds like he was sleeping.

“Fucking hell, what?”

“Chris,” I say, and instantly there’s a change in his voice.

“Oh, man. Sorry C-man. What can I do for you?” His tone is all kowtowing, and I hate it more than I hate friends telling me to be safe and be careful.

“Did a blonde check in tonight around midnight?” I ask, and he’s quick to answer.

“Yes! Beautiful woman.” He sounds nervous, and it puts me on edge. Nervous people have things to hide. People hiding things can be dangerous.

“Did you ID her?” I know he didn’t, but here’s hoping.

He hesitates. “Uhhhh, let me check…”

He’s stalling. Why? Does he think that he’s fooling me? “You didn’t ID her.” I don’t ask, I state it, and I hear his voice fall.

“Uh, no.”

“Is she still there?” I ask, keeping back a sigh that would reveal too much to Chris.

“Yeah. Her truck is still here. And I haven’t seen her leave.” I hear what sounds like a door opening on his end, and he reaffirms her truck is there.

Her truck. Interesting. Nothing is registered to her name. “What’s the plate number on that truck?” I ask, and he rattles it off as I memorize the string of numbers and letters.

A Las Vegas plate. She’s got to know that’ll give her away in an instant. “Thanks, Chris. Call me if she leaves.”

“Of course,” he says, and I hang up. I run the plate and find it’s registered to none other than William Bounder. Her father. Of course.

Comfortable that I know where she is, I look up everything I can on Arlo. And the more I dig, the more I want to smash his face in. The prick is a Class A asshole who preys on models. Addie isn’t the first. She’s the first he’s gone this far on, but that only tells me she’s the first to stand up to him.

Which means she’s in danger. Because someone with escalating violence toward women is a dangerous animal. And he’s pretty much decided to let the world take her out considering he posted nude photos of her online along with her personal information and who knows what other slurs.

I shudder at the thought of this girl running for her life from guys who will rape her and possibly worse when they find her. Though I’ve heard it said that some women see rape as worse than death.

But how can I help her?

Wait, why do I want to help her?

Why am I so deeply invested in this stranger?

Because this is injustice to a degree I can’t ignore. I bring down the bad guys. I haul them in, make sure they are judged. But this guy will likely get away scot-free even if this girl winds up floating in the Sound.

That’s not right.

I imagine she’s curled up in a ball in that shitty motel, terrified at every sound and shadow. And I decide I’m going to do something about Arlo. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But he’s going to get what’s coming to him. And I’m going to give it to him.

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

I toss and turn and finally fall into a light, fitful sleep filled with uneasy dreams of a beautiful blonde floating facedown in icy water. Every time, I forget to analyze the surroundings. I rush in to help, hoping she’s still alive and I can revive her.

But every time I get to her in the frigid water, I turn her over and her eyes are blank, staring up at the skies like she’s holding the entire world responsible for this whole terrible mess.

And as I cradle her lifeless body to my chest in waist-deep freezing water, I hear the pop pop pop of the gun and feel the slugs tearing into my back.

And my blood spills out over her and into the water in a widening puddle that stains the water dark as I feel life draining from me.