Joshua

Mark stands in his kitchen typing quickly on his laptop. “Is she staying under her real name?”

My arms are crossed, and I watch over his shoulder. “Yeah. She said the hotel was near Mother’s, within walking distance.”

He connects with an online database and runs a check. Numbers fly by, and I hope this isn’t a mistake. It’s a strange, mixed up feeling to want her to be okay, but hope she’s not. If she’s just not answering my calls, I’m really putting the nails in my coffin doing this.

“Jillian’s asleep.” Lara glides into the room and goes straight to her husband. “What have you found?”

“Give me a few more seconds… and… She’s at the Ace hotel on Carondelet. Looks like she hasn’t checked out.” Mark’s eyes meet mine. “Do you want to head over and try to see her?”

“You have her room number?”

“I’ve got a badge.”

I glance from him to Lara. Since I arrived and told them Molly is missing, they immediately went to work. I said I found her list, and Lara’s face turned pale. She left the room with her little girl, and Mark asked if Molly was “still doing it.”

I answered honestly, I’m not sure, and here we are. Here I am wondering how deep this web of crime and revenge runs. How far back into the past it stretches. At some point, I’ll have to get the whole story.

Now is not the time. Scooping up my phone, I nod to him. “Let’s go.”

The hotel is a tall, refurbished warehouse with twenty-foot ceilings and industrial accents. Exposed brick walls line the lobby, and the floors are scrubbed, dark wood. The front desk isn’t busy when we arrive, and Mark goes straight to the attendant.

“We need the room number for Molly Dixon.” He places his black leather wallet on the counter and subtly shows the badge.

I’m scanning the lobby for anyone acting suspicious. Two men are sitting on leather chairs near a palm. I watch them to see if they’re watching us, but they never look up. One is reading a newspaper. The other is working on a computer.

“I’ve got it.” Mark’s voice is quiet, and I follow him to the elevators.

We ride up to the fourth floor, making our way quickly down the slate-blue hallway to a corner room.

“Hold up.” He takes a knee, pulling a white handkerchief from his coat pocket. “Look at this. Don’t touch.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Get closer.” Mark steps back, scanning the hall around and pulling out his pistol.

I lean closer and see the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the doorknob is hiding a crack running along where the latch is located. Mark steps forward and gently leans into the door with his shoulder. The mechanism drops, taking the sign with it.

“Shit!” I hiss.

The door creaks open, and my stomach drops at the sight inside. Splinters of wood are on the floor, clothes are scattered everywhere.

“It’s empty,” I say quietly.

“Just be careful, and don’t touch anything. It’s all evidence.”

We step gingerly into the room. He continues toward the window, but I pause, looking into the bathroom. Her makeup remover is out, and a washcloth is on the sink. A white plastic stick with a purple cap is on the floor beside a bent cardboard box.

Leaning down, I see Home Pregnancy Test printed on the side. My stomach drops, and I swallow the sudden dryness in my throat. “What the fuck… Mark!”

He hustles back to where I’m standing. “What is it?”

“Look at this. Pick this up and tell me what it says.”

Frowning, he steps to see what I’m looking at. I straighten and shove both hands into my hair. “Tell me she’s not pregnant.”

I have to get out of here. My chest is exploding, and I’m about to start breaking things. This is too much. We’ve reached the point where this is all fucking too much for me.

Mark’s voice is grave. “Somebody’s pregnant.” Straightening, he sees my expression and grips my shoulders. He and I are about the same height and equally built. “Grab the reins. We’re going to find her.”

“I can’t—”

“This might not even belong to Molly. Was she traveling with anyone? Are you sure she was alone here?”

I’m nodding as I answer him. “I think so… If she met anyone, it was the man at The Napoleon House, but he’s older—”

“Who’s the man at The Napoleon House?”

“I don’t know.” Shaking my head, I stagger out of the bathroom and collapse onto the bed. “She never told me his name. Just that he’s an old friend. Someone she knew from before.”

Mark follows me out. “Someone from before? I know everyone she knew from before… What did he look like?”

My eyes snap to him. I hadn’t considered the possibility he might know this guy. “Older. Silver-haired, very well-dressed. He looked possibly foreign.”

“In New Orleans?” Mark shakes his head. “That could be anybody.”

My elbows hit my knees, and I drop my face into my hands. “We’ve got to find her. If anything happens to her or…” Shit, my mind is still trying to catch up with this.

My baby?

My insides are churning, growing hotter and more desperate by the second. If anything happens to Molly or my baby…

My baby… my little boy or, shit. I force a breath. My baby girl?

The laptop across from me lights up, and Mark and I snap to attention.

He steps forward and examines the message on the screen. “Do you have gloves?”

I’m on my feet. “No. What does it say?”

“The username is Vox3000. It’s asking if she got the information she needed.”

The message floats on the black screen, and I reach forward to wake it, pausing before I touch it. “Are you worried about contaminating evidence?”

“I think we’ll find what we need faster by taking it rather than leaving it behind.”

“I agree.” I carefully close the laptop and gather the power cord.

Mark scans the room one last time before we go. “This might come in handy.”

He points at a white device just peeking out from under her black silk dress.

“Shit…” Panic steals my voice. “She wouldn’t go anywhere without her phone.”

“Still, there’s no trace of blood. She wasn’t hurt here.”

We exchange a glance, and he hustles to the door. I’m right behind him, Molly’s phone in my pocket and her laptop under my arm. Our only hope is in finding an address or hoping the old man calls her.

“You said it was an older guy with gray hair?” Lara paces the kitchen bouncing her little girl on her hip and frowning as she thinks.

The toddler pulls a long strand of her mother’s dark hair to her mouth, and I can’t take my eyes off her. All I can think about is Molly kidnapped and pregnant. Molly and my baby.

I have to find her…

I have to find them.

“Josh?” Lara’s soft voice brings me back to attention.

“Sorry, what?”

“Did you at least talk to the man? Did he possibly have a French accent?”

“I never talked to him.” My chin drops, and I look at my helpless hands.

Mark is in the other room running a password hacker on Molly’s laptop. We’re sitting here waiting, hoping and praying he can get into it.

Lara frowns, and moves her daughter to her other hip. The little girls squirms, and Lara bends to put her down. “Go play, Jillian,” she says softly.

The little girl stays beside her, pulling on her leg and whining. “I guess she can tell we’re all stressed out.” Lara opens a cabinet and takes down a bag of goldfish crackers.

I watch her being a mom, doing these domestic things, but Molly’s list is heavy on my mind. I didn’t need to be told what happened to Gavin. I was there, and it was awful. He was strangling Molly, and when I tried to help her, he knocked me out cold.

When I came to, I discovered Lara had shot him. It was unsettling but understandable… The other name is a mystery, and I can’t stop thinking about what I read and trying to make it fit with what I know of this elegant woman married to a cop.

“On the list Molly had… your name was beside another man’s.”

Her blue eyes widen briefly before she squats down beside her daughter, turning her back to me. “I can’t believe she kept a list.” Her voice is casual, but I can tell she’s worried. “What a great way to get us all locked up, Mol.”

“Did you do it? Did you kill that man?”

She doesn’t answer right away, and Mark yells from the other room. “I’m in!”

Forgetting my question, I’m on my feet, running to where he’s sitting. Lara is right behind me.

“Okay, let me see if I can follow this chat.”

I watch as he scrolls through the window. It’s a conversation spanning more than a month of back and forth between users HG187 and MM50.

“It looks like Molly is HG187. This MM50 sent her an address here in town. Write it down.”

“Here.” I pull out my phone and snap a screenshot. “I’ve got it. Let’s go.”

Shoving my phone in my pocket, I take one step toward the door before Mark stops me. “Nope. It looks like that’s a dead end. She comes back a few days later and says it was bad information.”

Returning to where he sits, I look at the screen again. “Does it have a different address?”

“Hang on…” Mark is scrolling, reading. “This person claims the address is correct, but Molly insists it isn’t.”

“I don’t care, I’m going there.”

“Wait,” Mark reaches out to grip my arm. “If this address is connected to her disappearance, we’ll tip them off if we show up without a reason.”

“If it’s connected, we don’t have time to waste.” Taking out my phone, I open the Lyft app and enter the address. “I won’t give anything away. I’ll just see who lives there and if I can find out anything.”

“You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

“I’m looking for my family.”