Page 3 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

He'd always been the quiet one, the fixer. The guy who disappeared when everything got too loudifhe wasn't at the center of why it was so loud. We didn't know each other well, not really, just enough to exchange a nod at family events and maybe a half-smile if the pie was good. But something told me he'd understand, or, if nothing else, he'd be too annoyed to leave me alone until I told him everything. Either way, I'd end up safe. Maybe.

Hopefully.

I glanced at the new phone lying blank on the seat beside me, and my fingers itched to power it on, to call someone, anyone, but I didn't. Instead, I kept driving. To Webb's brother's ranch, where I really hoped he was, and to whatever came next.

I'd also like to point out that I prayed like hell I'd live long enough to regret my life choices and taking this job.

Chapter Three

Webb

The drive from Branford to Orlando usually took about two and a half hours. I had made the trip several times, so I knew the locations of gas stations, which backroads could save me ten minutes, and which exits to avoid if I wanted to protect my car's suspension. But that drive felt longer as every mile down I-75 carried the weight of what could be happening with Gabby.

I’d barely spoken to her in months. The last time we had been in the same room was at a family barbecue with my sister-in-law Sasha’s family. Even then, we hadn’t spoken very much. I think I scared her, although I couldn’t figure out why. I was a fucking delight to be around…sometimes. That day, she'd been polite, but if I thought back on it, she wasn't really her usual self, considering how quiet she'd been and how often I'd seen her on her phone. However, it wasn't anything that’d raise alarm bells, seeing as how she was the kind of woman who always looked like she was about to say something but thought better of it. Alittle too sweet for this world—or at least that’s what I’d always figured.

Apparently, I didn’t know shit because now she’d disappeared off radar, wasn’t answering her phone, and Sasha—who rarely panicked—was begging me to find her.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, cursing the heavy traffic on the highway. Gainesville was behind me, but Orlando still felt out of reach. The sky was beginning to cloud over with the sticky, end-of-day humidity, and my shirt clung to my back as if it were trying to suffocate me.

Needing to be as proactive as possible, I hit the hands-free button on my truck’s dash. “Call Matty.”

The phone rang twice before his gravel-and-coffee voice answered. “Well, damn. Look who remembered I exist.”

“I need a favor,” I clipped, skipping the formalities.

“You always do. Are you drunk or bleeding?”

“Neither. Not yet.” I could be honest with both myself and him about that. The likelihood of me ending up bleeding, even from a cat scratch, was high—I just had that kind of luck. “I’m looking for someone. Her name is Gabriella Dempsey, and she’s Jackson’s wife, Sasha’s cousin. She’s missing, and I have a bad feeling about it.”

There was a pause, but I could hear him typing already.

“Okay, you know how this works. What do you have? Plates, address, burner phone, photo, blood sample?—?”

“Nothing concrete, just that she might be in trouble, seeing as how she's disappeared and no one can get in touch with her,likely scared and definitely hiding from someone dangerous. I’m heading to Orlando now to investigate. I thought your crew in Gainesville might have heard something.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he grunted. “Give me twenty minutes.”

“I owe you dinner and a beer for doing this for me, man.”

“You’ll owe me a boat,” he sighed, and he wasn't wrong. Matty had done a lot for me over the years.

He hung up the phone, and I focused back on the road. The closer I got to Orlando on the Turnpike, the worse the traffic became, which was totally predictable. Every local I knew complained about the same issues: rental cars cutting across three lanes as if they were in aFast & Furiousspin-off, GPS devices giving confusing directions, and tourists driving as though turn signals were optional accessories.

I muttered a curse under my breath as a minivan abruptly cut in front of me, making a last-second left turn across three lanes and nearly clipping my bumper. My coffee sloshed in the cup holder, causing me to grit my teeth just as another rental car swerved into my lane without any warning.

Hell.

I slowed to a crawl as we hit the tourist gauntlet filled with bright signs, cheap souvenirs, and those goddamn oversized billboards distracting people who were driving their land whales.

My phone rang again just as I was about to lift my hand to give someone the finger.

“Talk to me.”

“Found her address,” Matty replied without preamble. “I've sent it to your phone. She's on West Colonial Drive. It's a small house with one bed and looks like a holdover from a different decade. Funny thing is, I already had someone a few blocks away, so I sent ‘em to check it out before I called.”

“Yeah?”

He hesitated before answering, raising my hackles even more. “The place looks dead, Webb. There's no car in the drive, no movement, and no sign of anyone coming or going.”

---