“I’ve told you all this already,” I say, sitting on the sofa in Amanda’s living room. The lights are on, now, the cops having flipped the breaker. He didn’t cut the wires at least.

 

“Tell us again,” the cop asks. He’s sitting in front of me, on one of the chairs from Amanda’s kitchen. I want to tell him to get his fat, snide ass off that chair. He doesn’t deserve to sit in one of her chairs. He doesn’t want to help her. He only wants to pin this on me.

 

“Don’t you get it? While you’re questioning me, that fucking maniac has her! He could be raping her, killing her, right now! And you’re not doing anything about it!”

 

“Maybe if you’d comply,” another cop says. A female this time. She hates me just as much as the rest of them do. She’s not even trying to hide it.

 

I take a deep breath, struggling to control my temper. “Like I said. I was coming here to talk to her. She called me earlier, wanting to make up after an argument we had—you’ve listened to the voicemail. I called her back. When she didn’t reply after an hour, I came here. I wasn’t worried about her safety so much as I was worried why she wouldn’t call when she sounded so ready to talk when she left that message. It seemed out of character.”

 

“And what did you find when you got here?”

 

I want to tell them to look the fuck around. “The door was almost closed, but not totally. I went to knock, but it swung open a little. I opened it all the way. I saw the bloodstain, the purse on the floor. So I called you.” I hadn’t wanted to. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But I remembered this wasn’t about me. It was about her. Finding her. A big fucking lot of good that did me, seeing as how they haven’t started looking yet.

 

“You say you two had an argument earlier today?”

 

Oh, no. Not this. “Yeah, a little disagreement.”

 

“What was it about?”

 

“It’s personal.”

 

“I thought you wanted to help your girlfriend.”

 

“She’s not…Anyway, how would this help you? What we talked about has nothing to do with this. I’m telling you, her ex is a goddamned lunatic. Did you find that clipping? It has to be around here somewhere. I just looked at it this morning.” I point to the coffee table. “It was right here.”

 

“We didn’t see any type of clipping anywhere,” the female officer tells me.

 

“Great. He probably took it!”

 

“You’re saying Miss Ellingwood has a stalker?”

 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Her boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, was abusive. He was stalking her. She just recently blocked his number and blocked him on social media. Check it out—her laptop’s right here. You can probably log in and see for yourself. He’s insane. I know he has her.”

 

“We’ll take the laptop as evidence, and have our forensic team go through it.”

 

“You don’t need a fucking forensic team for this!” I’m shaking with rage. It’s like talking to a wall. “I’m telling you, I looked at her messages today! Just this morning. He said sick things. All you have to do is look, and you’ll see what I mean. You should be looking for this guy!”

 

“What’s his name again?” One of the cops takes out a notepad.

 

“Lucas.”

 

“Lucas what?”

 

“I don’t know. If you look at the account with the messages, you’ll be able to see.”

 

“Mr. Barton, we can’t just log in to a person’s accounts without permission.”

 

I must be losing my mind. It’s the only explanation. “Even when you think there’s been a kidnapping? Are you kidding me? She’s not a suspect here. It’s not like you have to watch yourself. She’s the victim. She needs your help. Please. Help her. He took her. I know he did.”

 

“Mr. Barton…” The woman cop looks at me, hands on hips. “How do we know you’re not just making this up?”

 

“The proof is right there.” I point to the computer.

 

“How do we know this isn’t some convenient excuse?”

 

“What? You mean you think I did something to her because I saw these messages and thought it was a good excuse? Like, oh, great, now I can kill this girl because I have somebody to pin it on? What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

 

“Don’t use that language with us, Mr. Barton.”

 

“Or what? You’ll take me in?” This is a nightmare. A living nightmare. It’s all I can do not to explode in front of these people. I take a few deep breaths, screaming internally, telling myself to get a grip on my emotions. “Listen. Please. I care about this girl. She’s very special. She’s in trouble. Please. I know…I know I don’t have a good reputation in this town. That’s all my fault. I get it. I did some bad things. Don’t make her pay for it. You’re looking at the wrong person in all of this. Just…do her the favor of looking into this Lucas guy. You’ll find his last name on those messages—I honestly don’t remember what it was, but I remember seeing it.” I look from one cop to the other, then back again. I might as well be talking to a wall.

 

“Yeah. We’ll do that. In the meantime, don’t go anywhere.” Both officers move to the kitchen, leaving me alone.

 

I don’t believe it. I’ve never felt so completely helpless in my life. Not even when Michelle died. This is a new level of hell. I thought I’d been through it all. I had no idea how bad things could get.

 

“Amanda…” I whisper. I close my eyes. Where are you? Are you still alive? I open my eyes, and immediately they fall on the blood stain. My fists clench. I’ll kill that son of a bitch. I just have to find him.

 

The cops aren’t doing anything. It’s up to me.

 

I take a look in the kitchen, where the two assholes who questioned me are talking with their heads close together. I know I’m their prime suspect. I know they’re trying to cook up a reason to take me in for further questioning. I can’t let them do that.

 

There are a few cops outside, looking for footprints in the back yard. There’s another one upstairs, checking to see if the attacker left anything behind. I’m alone for the moment.

 

I see something sticking out of Amanda’s purse, half spilled out onto the floor. Her phone. Shit. Maybe he called her? I glance back to the kitchen, making sure they’re not watching me, then slide off the sofa into a crouch and swipe the phone.

 

I sit back on the couch, phone at my side. It’s been turned off. No wonder she didn’t know I called—if she was even able to take a call that that point. I have no idea when Lucas took her. I turn it on, waiting for what seems like years for it to start up. Then the home screen comes up. Thank God she doesn’t lock it.

 

There’s a message—mine, I assume. And a handful of texts. I look again at the cops in the kitchen. They’re oblivious. I open the texts. They’re from an unknown number, but they’re clearly from him.

 

I’ll make you love me again.

 

You’ll see. We can be happy.

 

I’ll take you back to the tower. That’s where we fell in love. That’s where we’ll start fresh.

 

The tower? What the hell was this guy on? What tower?

 

I have to find out what this means, but I can’t do it while I’m stuck here. They’re still deep in conversation in the kitchen, their backs to me. Good. Let them stay there.

 

I put the phone back, only this time I leave it on the floor by the purse instead of halfway inside. These idiots need all the help they can get. I have no idea where they learned to be cops, but they’re fucking terrible at it.

 

Then I slide off the couch again and duck low enough to go unseen as I leave through the open front door. I don’t hear any noise behind me, so I know they don’t hear me go.

 

There’s no one out front. It’s like they don’t want to find her at all! Like they’re convinced I killed her. I swallow the bile in my throat. My bike’s still in the driveway, behind her car. I run for it, jumping on and wheeling it backward with my feet. Only when I hit the street do I turn over the ignition, then ride as fast I can away from that house. I have to go home and get myself ready.

 

I don’t know where to go or what to expect, but I have to find some way to get to her. There has to be some clue somewhere. I hope I can find it before the cops find me.