The Symphony Building looms in front of me, though the top floors are barely visible against the dark sky and through the driving rain.
Things have gone from bad to worse. And the phones still aren’t working.
Son of a bitch.
I run through the deluge to the front door of the building.
Locked.
Fuck.
For a brief moment, I consider breaking the solid glass door pane, but then someone exits the elevator inside and walks toward the mailboxes to the left of the front entrance.
I pound on the glass to get the guy’s attention and smile as friendly as I can when he turns toward me. He moves to the door and opens it for me but doesn’t move out of the way.
“Who are you here for? You should just use the buzzer.” He points toward the list of residents near the door over a small buzzer box.
Shrugging, I try to look as innocent as possible. “I know, I’ve been buzzing my friend Lucas up in apartment twelve for a while, but he hasn’t been answering. He must be in the shower or something. Can you let me in?” I’m absolutely drenched, and I force my body to shake in hopes he’ll feel pity on me.
Come on, dude.
Dropping Lucas’ name and apartment number apparently does the trick, or maybe it’s my stellar “woe is me” performance, because he moves to the side and lets me enter the lobby.
“Thanks, man. It’s nasty out there.”
He looks out and nods. “No shit.”
I clap him on the shoulder and mumble another thanks before jogging to the elevators. Just as I press the “up” button, the lights in the lobby flicker out, as does the light on the elevator bottom.
Shit.
The power is out.
A red exit sign at the end of the lobby catches my eye. I run to it and shove it open before racing up the stairs. By the sixth flight, I’m cursing the fact Lucas lives on the tenth floor and wondering if I need to do more cardio at the gym, but I eventually make it.
Apartment 1012 is at the end of the long, dark hall. The only illumination is the red exit sign and one emergency flood light that probably runs on a generator.
I pause outside Lucas’ door and listen for any signs of someone inside.
There are two possible approaches here. One—I could go in guns blazing. Literally. Two—I can knock and hope he answers. He doesn’t know who I am. There’s no reason for him to suspect anything more than me maybe being a neighbor he doesn’t know.
As much as I want to shoot the fucker, option two is probably the most prudent.
I rap my knuckles against the door and listen for a response.
Silence.
I pound harder.
Silence.
The dark hallway is empty. I have only one option at this point. I’m not leaving without getting inside this apartment.
There’s a deadbolt on this door, and I don’t have time to get what I need to pick it.
Damnit.
I’ll have some explaining to do when this is all done. I’m probably going to end up back in a jail cell, but I don’t care. He has Skye, and I’m getting her back.
Two kicks is all it takes before the door releases from the frame. I won’t have much time before a neighbor comes to investigate.
Work fast.
It’s immediately clear no one’s here. I search for any sign of Skye as I make my way through the small apartment.
My heart races and my vision turns red when I open the last door. What should be a guest bedroom is instead some sort of sick shrine.
Photos of Skye plaster the walls and range from close-up shots in bed where she’s clearly posing for the camera to ones that were taken from a block or two away with a telephoto lens.
The latter appear to be very recent, maybe even from the last couple of days.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He’s more of a psycho than I ever thought.
I check my phone again.
No service.
But a text came through…from Skye.
The words make my blood run cold. He fucking has her. There’s no question about it now, and they aren’t here. My worst fear is a reality.
The wooden desk chair splinters as I slam it against the wall. I reach under the desk and flip it, tossing the contents of the drawers onto the floor.
I rummage through the papers, searching for anything that might give me a hint where he took her.
My eyes land on the bottom drawer of the sick psycho’s desk, which managed to stay closed. I yank it out, and its contents take my rage to a level I never thought possible.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
A drawer overflowing with women’s underwear I can only assume belong to Skye tells me all I need to know about this fucker. He’s not living through this.
There’s plenty of Skye’s things in here, but no sign of Skye actually being here any time recently.
Where the hell are you?
Returning to the living room, I search for absolutely anything. His mail sits unopened on the kitchen counter. I tear through, praying for anything to give me a clue to where he may have taken her.
First, breaking and entering…three times. And now, federal mail fraud.
It’s been a real banner day for me.
A notice from St. Tammany Parish Assessor’s office catches my eye.
I rip it open.
Dear Mr. Oliver,
We have made repeated attempts to contact you regarding your property located at 35305 Laurent Drive, Slidell, St. Tammany Parish, Louisiana 70458. As you know, the property taxes for this location were due on January 1, 2017 and have yet to be paid. Please contact us immediately to avoid any further legal action being taken against you in regard to this matter.
Parish Assessor
He has another house.
Fuck!
The darkness and bone-chilling cold of the room are suffocating.
Wind howls outside and thrashes rain against the windows. The entire house shakes violently with every gust.
I shudder and snuggle down deeper under the blanket.
I’ve weathered worse storms and been through some serious shit the last few years. But this takes the cake.
Shit.
Trying to stay positive and not let my mind wander down the road of worst-case scenarios is nearly impossible.
I’d give anything to have Gabe here right now. He’s always been there for me, for Star, for all of us, whatever we needed, whenever we needed it. And I need him now, more than ever.
Where are you, Gabe?
You promised you would always come…
FALL 2004
“Where’s Star?”
Christy glares up at me from where she sits on the couch, talking with her boyfriend, Greg, with a red Solo cup of shitty beer in her hand, and shrugs. “How the hell should I know?”
“Because I left her here with you, and you promised you would keep an eye on her!” My head throbs, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. I can’t believe she would let Star wander off. Christy knows how wasted and upset she is and that she shouldn’t be left alone.
My stomach roils even though I haven’t drunk enough to get sick. It just tells me what I already know—somewhere, Star is really not doing well. While the constant feeling of being connected to her is comforting on many levels, one of the downsides of the whole twin thing is the pangs of pain and discomfort I feel when she’s sick or hurting. And right now, she is definitely both.
I peek at my watch.
It’s after midnight. Mom will flip a fucking lid if Star and I don’t make it home before one. The only reason I even left Star was to try to find us a sober ride.
My search was unsuccessful and, as the seconds tick by on my watch, I can already hear the lecture not only from Mom, but Savage, too. Words like “irresponsible,” “reckless,” and “immature,” echo in my ears—the same ones I’ve heard at least a dozen times from them in the not-so-distant past.
And now, I let Star get drunk. Star, the one who never drinks. Star, who is usually jumping on the “Skye is careless” bandwagon and mothering me when we are out.
To be fair, she really needed it. After what that little twatwaffle Mike did to her—telling her he needed “time to be alone” and breaking up with her this morning only to show up here tonight with that slutbag Audra—she deserved to unwind and drown her sorrows.
But Savage and Mom won’t see it that way. Never.
I need to get her sobered up and home. STAT.
So, I swallow my anger at Christy and focus on what needs to be done. “At least come help me find her.”
She sighs and pushes herself up from the couch, bringing her cup and bad attitude with her. Greg grabs her hand. “Where are you going?” The pout he gives her makes me want to vomit even more.
Christy bends down and kisses him. “I’ll be right back.”
With a massive eye-roll, I turn back to the party and start looking for Star again. Christy follows. I make my way through all the rooms on the first floor of our classmate’s house asking people if they’ve seen her.
No sign of Star.
The yard garners the same result, so we take the search upstairs.
I knock on each locked door I come to and receive some dirty looks from the guys who open them. I’m no doubt interrupting some fumbling attempt to get laid.
High school boys are such fucking losers.
When I reach the last closed door, I send up a silent prayer Star didn’t somehow end up alone with one of the less than gentlemanly boys from our school. “Star?” I knock on the door and get a muffled, mumbled reply that sounds vaguely like my name.
A twist of the knob tells me she didn’t even bother to lock it.
The hinges creak when I push the door open. A mixture of relief and concern flood me. She’s alone in the bathroom, but also laying on the tile floor in front of the toilet, looking as shitty as I now feel.
“See, you found her.”
I glance over my shoulder at Christy.
“Can I go now?”
“No.”
She rolls her eyes at me. I ignore her and step into the bathroom to kneel down next to Star, brushing her dark hair back off her forehead. “Star, wake up.”
Star stirs, rolling more onto her side, and turning her face up toward me. “Skye…ugh…I’m sick.”
“No shit, Sherlock. We’re gonna get you home.”
Christy moves into the bathroom and leans against the counter. “I thought you couldn’t find a ride?”
“I didn’t, but I have someone I can call.”