Griff hadn’t wanted a drink this badly in nearly two years. His insides felt like those demons he thought he’d conquered were clawing at his insides to force him to give them satisfaction. He wasn’t going to do that over some nosy socialite who meant nothing to him. He was never going back there again for anyone.

The card the woman gave him when he left her at her Mercedes would be tossed in the trashcan as soon as he could make himself do it. He’d tried three times on the way back here, but hadn’t been able to force himself to drop it in the can.

He’d wasted too much time today digging up bones that should be left buried.

As he walked down tent row, he shined his flashlight on his tent. When he saw the faint glow inside, his shoulders relaxed. That glow meant Layla was still there. She was probably inside with the battery-operated lantern doing her nightly reading that he insisted she do. The odds were since she was still there, she’d be pissed at him for making her worry. The cold hamburger in the Styrofoam box in his hand would be his peace offering.

He knelt and threw back the flap then frowned when he found the tent empty. The lantern was there, her book was there, but Layla wasn’t.

“Some boy came around today and she was talking to him. He looked to be a druggie and the tats on his face and neck said he was probably a banger. I told her you’d be pissed,” Henry, his neighbor, announced as he stopped beside Griff. “She was still here at six, so she can’t be far.”

Still here at six. If he’d been here instead of pretending he was on a date, he could have stopped her. Guilt dropped on his shoulders like a lead curtain and those demons dug deeper. He groaned as he closed his eyes and put his hand over his stomach.

Closing his eyes was a mistake, he realized immediately, as flashes of the bloody living room, and his daughter and wife’s bodies appeared. The demons roared in his head, grief pushed bile up to his throat and Griff’s whole body went rigid as he fought them.

“I heard him tell her his name was Dragon or something. Probably a street name. Looked to be Hispanic. Had a Spanish accent. White wife beater under a black jacket, jeans down at his knees and red underwear.”

“Thank you,” Griff croaked as he held out the box to Henry. “Take this and eat it. Happy Thanksgiving.”

There was no way Griff would be able to eat it. Right now, he felt like crawling in his sleeping bag and going to sleep forever. But that would mean closing his eyes.

“I’d rather have a fifth of Jack or a pack of smokes,” Henry said with a rusty laugh as he took the box from him. Griffin would too, but that wasn’t an option for him. Henry flipped open the box and groaned. “Oh, well maybe not. This is one of those fancy burgers. And, oh my God, is that apple pie? It really is Thanksgiving. Thanks, man, and I hope you find her.”

Henry disappeared and Griff looked over at the open wooden box in the corner of the tent where he kept the pistol. He crawled inside and his heart stopped when he saw the box was empty. His only hope was she’d taken the pistol for protection, but his guess was the thug had stolen it or she’d given it to him, thinking he would protect her.

There were at least three street gangs in this part of town, all with different turfs, most of which were more dangerous than any war zone he’d ever been in. One was MS-13, and he wouldn’t dare wander into their territory alone and unarmed. Men who did that did not come back out alive and he had to stay alive to find Layla.

He had no idea where to even start looking for her, but he would start with the lesser of three evils. The Crips to the northeast. North Side Varrio would be next, then MS-13 if he didn’t find her before he went on that suicide mission. One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t stop looking until he either found her or was dead.

---

For the next week, Griff worked his way around the three block area talking to the locals, describing Layla and asking if anyone had seen her to no avail. It was no wonder, because the only photograph he had of her was a tattered, faded shot of her at five years old with her brother. The fact she left that photo behind told him she’d planned on coming back, which made him even more afraid for her, and desperate to find her.

Leaving her behind to go to that church, then worrying about a woman he didn’t even know is what caused this. If he’d stayed at the tent, Layla wouldn’t be wandering around, probably being raped or forced into prostitution to support a gang.

God, what had he been thinking?

He’d been thinking he needed to go pay penance for all the lives he’d taken during his time in the military, then the CIA, like he did every year. He’d been thinking he needed to pray for his wife and daughter who’d paid the ultimate price for him taking that job without considering their safety. And now, the girl he was taking care of to try and right that wrong would probably die because of his inattention, too.

Griff admitted right then that he was a lifetime loser. Nobody should depend on him for their safety, because that woman Lou Ellen was right. He couldn’t even take care of himself. When he found Layla, he would turn her over to CPS and walk away for her own good. At least then, the three years she had to go before adulthood would be spent in comfort and safety.

Why in the hell had he let himself care about someone again? The better question was why had he let her come to depend on him?

That mistake might now cost Layla her life and him his sanity—again.