Dean

 

Dean leaned against the side of the motorcycle, watching the front doors of the school where he had last seen his little girl. He checked his phone for the — well, he didn’t even want to hazard a guess about how many times he’d looked down to see what time it was. He had been staring often enough, that much he knew for sure.

 

He knew more now than the last time he’d stood outside this building. That day, he’d known something was wrong with Abbey, and that there was a lingering danger to his daughter. Now, he knew that something was horribly wrong on all fronts. He knew that his daughter was being held by a trained assassin, a former military operative, the kind of guy who lived was so far off the grid that his aliases had aliases. And yet, somehow, it appeared that this man was not the greatest threat to his daughter.

 

All through the last horrible seventy-two hours, he’d been sure that Mia and Abbey had been taken through some kind of strange play to attack him. He was now sure that something entirely different was happening. He had to talk to Cassidy. If he thought Emma would speak to him, she might have been able to help, but even if she had, finding out what he needed to know would’ve involved sneaking her back into the daycare. Not a workable plan, not really. This was going to be better. If he just kept telling himself that, sooner or later, he’d believe it.

 

Finally, after a near eternity, the employee door from the daycare opened, and Cassidy stepped out. He recognized her from the staff photos on the website and Emma’s description. As he pushed off from his bike and crossed the parking lot, he carefully adjusted his posture and walk to appear as unthreatening from a six-foot-tall guy in biker leathers as possible.

 

When he was still a good distance away, he called, “Excuse me. Cassidy?”

 

She jerked, but she didn’t run. That was a good start. One hand did flinch towards her purse. He made a mental note to watch out for pepper spray or something similar.

 

“Hi,” he said, doing his best to paste a friendly and approachable grin on his face and make sure his hands were visible. “My name is Dean Patterson, and I’m a friend of Emma Mills. I hoped we could talk for just a minute.”

 

He’d thought that would be the toughest part, but instead of bolting, he saw her relax. When she said, “Emma told me you might get in touch. She said you’re safe,” his heart slowed down just a little bit. He stood several feet away from her, giving her plenty of room to run if she decided that was what she needed to do. He wouldn’t blame her if she did. But if she could help him…

 

“How much has Emma told you?”

 

“Not all that much. Just that she needed me to keep covering for her, and that it was important. But everyone here is upset. It’s not like her to just disappear, and if she’s sick, people want to help, not just pretend that she’ll be fine. I’ve told everyone she has some sort of stomach bug and is running at both ends, but they’re only going to buy that for so long before they want to check on her themselves.” She was quiet, and then she seemed to commit to something internally. “Whatever is going on, I want to help. It involves Mia Jenner, doesn’t it?”

 

The way she said Mia’s name, he was suddenly sure that Emma hadn’t said anything to explain that Mia was his daughter. And why would she? Why would anyone think—he cut the chain of thought off before it hurt him even more than it already had. He’d beaten himself enough with that particular thread of thought. It was time to move forward. He’d done the best he could, and there was nothing else to be done about it.

 

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep his tone relatively light. “She’s in danger. I’m trying to help.”

 

There was no moment when she flinched, no second when he had to watch her try and pull her courage together in order to move forward. It was a heartening thing to see. It made him smile, just a little bit.

 

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

 

It became just a little easier to breathe. Cassidy might not have the information he needed, but she wasn’t going to fight him. She wasn’t going to try and make things harder. She trusted that he was doing the right thing. It made it just a little easier for him to trust it as well.

 

“You know Mia’s birth mother died when she was just a baby?”

 

That did make her—not flinch, exactly, but it surprised her, at least a little. She recovered quickly and nodded. “Yes. She talks about her—” Here, Cassidy did falter, and she looked to Dean for help.

 

He answered the way he suspected Mia would have if she’d had the language. “Legally, Mia is Abbey’s niece, but Abbey is her mother in every way that matters. It’s okay to call her that, as long as Mia does.”

 

Cassidy nodded. “She talks about how she lives with her mother’s sister, but calls her Mama.”

 

He wanted to ask so many things. About whether Mia seemed bothered, whether she seemed hurt, whether he had made the right choice when she was just a baby and he was barely more than that. He forced himself to stay focused, which was its own sort of pain.

 

“We believe there was more to Sam’s death than was previously uncovered by the police.” She didn’t ask who “we” were, and he didn’t offer. It was easier this way. “We think Mia may have actually uncovered something. Maybe a diary, or an old file, something that she might not have understood, but might have told someone about. Even in a weird way.”

 

Cassidy was already nodding. “I think I know. There was a notebook she brought to school. We were doing a unit on memories, and she turned up with this old composition book. She wanted to cut it up for her memory book, but when it came time to start cutting, she ended up stashing it in her cubby, and working from magazines instead.”

 

His heart beat so hard that he thought it might burst through his sternum. “Do you think it’s still there?”

 

“I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t be,” she said and gestured. “Come on. We can go back in and look right now.”

 

He followed her back towards the school and worked to contain himself while she pulled her keys back out and unlocked the main door. The urge to snarl at her to move faster was nearly overwhelming.

 

Tracey, the “receptionist” who’d finally opened up once he’d told her who exactly he was, had said that if he could find whatever “evidence” this man, Jay, thought Mia had, she believed her supervisors would be able to set up an exchange. It was strange to him, the way she’d spoken of men who had kidnapped a little girl as disgruntled professionals, not potential killers. But then, he knew what it was like to have a different frame of reference for the people you saw every day. He thought of some of his club siblings as “a little rough and tumble,” while the law and other authorities thought of them as the absolute worst kind of scum.

 

Cassidy turned on a few lights as they moved through the building. It was strange, moving into the same room where he’d felt his heart break, realizing that his little girl had been taken away. To be coming back here, maybe leaving with answers? It felt like a kind of healing.

 

He followed Cassidy towards a small bank of cubbies and stood a reasonable distance away as she shifted papers. After a moment, she smiled.

 

“Here you go,” she said, pulling out an old black and white composition book.

 

His heart twisted as his fingers closed on the notebook. Sam had loved those things. He’d never been a writer like she was, but he never understood her obsession with these cheap notebooks they had to use all the time in school. Surely there had to be better paper out there, better notebooks, things that held up better to the rough treatment she always gave them. But Sam had never cared.

 

She must not have had it for long before she died. The cover was still pristine, none of her scribbles or colorings that always personalized them over time. The corners weren’t bent or frayed, and the spine wasn’t broken. Maybe she’d taken it to her new job, ready to take notes. That was something she’d done all through school and well after. It had been something he admired about her.

 

“May I?” he asked, even though the notebook belonged to his own daughter, to her mother.

 

“Of course,” Cassidy replied. She passed it to him.

 

Which, of course, was when all the shit hit the fan. Wasn’t it always the way?

 

He had a moment where he might have reacted faster. He saw Cassidy’s eyes widen, heard the movement of air behind him as someone shifted faster than he could react. Maybe if he hadn’t taken so many blows to the head over the last few days, if he hadn’t gotten so little sleep, if he weren’t so worn ragged on adrenaline, he would’ve been able to duck. Or at least turtle up and take more of the attack on his head and shoulders. Instead, the blow caught him right on the back of his skull, ringing his bell very effectively. He wasn’t aware of falling to his knees, just the sensation of carpet under his feet as he tried to keep himself from tipping sideways. The notebook was out of his hands, and whoever had hit him scooped it up, then turned to haul ass out of the room. Dean managed to turn, catch the runner’s pants in his hand, and give enough of a yank to throw the person off balance, toppling them down onto the alphabet rug. There was an ugly sound as the runner went down. Dean looked up and saw Cassidy standing over the runner with a small but apparently very sturdy chair. He grinned, but it faded as the runner kicked out and caught him on the temple. He fought, but everything went dark.

 

###

 

He wasn’t out long, probably nothing more than a few seconds. It was Cassidy’s scream that made his head clear, and he looked up to see her backing away from someone who looked like they were brandishing a gun. On a better day, he would’ve made a move to take the guy down again, but with his head still ringing, there wasn’t a chance in hell. He stayed still and watched as the man reached down to the floor, scooped up Sam’s old notebook, and moved quickly out the door.

 

He sagged against the rug, the brief moment of hope he’d experienced fading as quickly as it had come. Tracey had been very clear: get the notebook and get back. Without that, there wasn’t anything she could do to call off Jay. He was part of the organization she represented but Jay had gone rogue and nothing was going to change until he was satisfied. Dean had asked if it was possible for him to be tracked down, and Tracey had lifted one bristly eyebrow before shaking her head.

 

For one moment, it had seemed like maybe, just maybe, he’d managed to save the day. And then it all fell apart, all over again. The urge to give up was so intense that it nearly overwhelmed him. Cassidy was crying on the floor, Emma was gone, and he was—yet again—out of leads.

 

He set his head down on the floor and took a long, long moment to try and regroup. Ultimately, there wasn’t much of anything left. Other than to go back to Connell and try yet again to find something to help him move forward.

 

He pulled himself up and went to Cassidy. She was already hauling herself back together, brushing him off. She hadn’t been wounded, physically, but she was clearly terrified. It was an open wound on his heart, another woman hurt by his actions.

 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here. I think it’s safe to say they have what they wanted, but just in case they decide you might have the same information, let’s make sure that you’re not here. Is it okay for me to take you somewhere safe?”

 

He watched her shudder, just a little, and then she looked up at him with a smile that was shaky but real. “Will there be more hot bikers?”

 

“Yes,” he said.

 

“Chicks and dudes?”

 

“Promise.” He stood and offered a hand. She took it, and he helped her stand.

 

“And alcohol,” she said as they started out of the building. “I am going to need some alcohol.”

 

You and me both, he thought. You and me both.