Page 69 of Jacob

“If she shows up, please call me.” She passes me her business card.

Taking it from her, I push it into the back pocket of my dress trousers.

“So, what now?”

“Now we wait…”

Skye’s mom bustles through the door. Whipping past us, suddenly brimming with determination, she says, “I’m not sitting here waiting for you to find her. I’m putting a search party together myself.” Her whole demeanor has changed since I left the living room.

She runs up the stairs, shouting as she goes. “Jacob, use that Facebook thingy to put a request out for help. I want everyone looking for her. I want her face all over social media and I want to do a press conference.”

Atta girl. Here we fucking go.

Still shouting instructions at us from up the stairs, Skye’s mom bellows, “Ring the local television networks. The nationals too and the newspapers. Call them all. I want posters and tee shirts. I want everything.” She zooms back down the stairs dressed in warm clothes. “We are getting our girl back.”

24

JACOB

It’s only eleven in the morning and I feel like I have been up for hours.

It feels like she’s been missing for days.

A year.

A whole fucking lifetime.

My blood pressure has reached peak levels. My pulse hasn’t stopped racing and I’ve gone into fight or flight. In fact, I am in pure fight mode.

And I won’t stop until we get her home.

After making phone call after phone call to get everything we need for the search party, I’ve arrived ahead of schedule to meet Walter, the infamous PI.

Being back in the coffee shop feels awful. Just being in the last place she was safe strangles the air from my lungs. The police informed us at the house there was no point sweeping for fingerprints, since all the tables had been sanitized before they closed last night.

While I’m waiting, I make the phone call I’ve been dreading.

It rings for ages and goes to voicemail. I try again. He still doesn’t pick up, so I leave a message.

Elbow on the table, I push my fingers into my eye sockets, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to say.

The beeps finish and I begin my message.

“Owen, it’s me. Jacob. I need you to call me as soon as possible. It’s about Skye. Your dad said he tried contacting you, too. Can you please call me?” I suppress my inner frustration. “It’s urgent.” With a heavy heart, I hang up.

“Jacob Baxter?”

A deep raspy voice startles the mental breakdown I’m currently having. Or maybe it’s a heart attack. I feel horrific.

Where is she?

I take Walter’s welcoming hand and shake it.

He sits down on the wooden chair opposite me, making it creak under the pressure of his weight.

I’m big.

He’s a giant.

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