Page 54 of Shattered Hope
I had been a total jerk, refusing to hear her side of her story, and now, there wasn’t much I could do.
I poured myself another drink and stared at the cloudy night, wishing she was there with me.
My cell phone started buzzing in my pocket, and for a moment, I ignored it, not wanting to talk to anyone else. Then, it occurred to me it could be Matt, the PI I hired, and pulled it out.
It was Jonathan.
Intrigued, I looked at the screen for a few moments before I finally answered the call.
“Jonathan…” I started saying.
“Is she with you?” he interrupted me, sounding distressed.
“What are you talking about?” I asked him, frowning.
“Is Anne with you?”
“No, of course not. I have no idea where she is.”
“She was staying here with me… while posing for the painting,” he said in a frantic tone.
“Why…?”
“She told me not to tell anyone. But tonight, a few minutes after she left the studio, towards the guest house, one of the outside doors was broken, triggering the alarm,” he explained. “We rushed to the guest house, but she’s not there, and we found her cell phone in the middle of the garden. The guest house door was wide open…”
“I’m on my way!” I told him, as a bad feeling gnawed at my guts. “Meanwhile, call the police.”
“Do you think he has her?”
I didn’t want to think of that possibility, but I knew nothing else made any sense. “Let’s hope not.”
I ended the call and rushed to my car. I arrived at the same time as the police. The door was broken from inside the wall, and the guest house door had also been forced open.
“Is there another way to enter the property?” one of the officers asked.
“From the beach. It’s a long walk up the ravine, but not impossible,” George informed. He was standing next to his husband, supporting him.
“I should have insisted for her to stay in the main house,” Jonathan murmured.
“I doubt she would have agreed,” I replied, running my fingers through my hair.
“There’s sand inside the house… that probably confirms your guess,” the officer said, while he took notes.
“Do you have her full name? Or her husband’s?” one of the other officers asked.
“She went by the name Anne Johnson here, but her true name is Ailani. I have no idea what’s her last name. I have someone trying to find out her husband’s name,” I explained the officer. “He attended a gala hosted by my mother. There’s a good chance he bought the ticket using his real name.”
“So, you suspect she was kidnapped by her husband?” the officer asked, with a slight frown. “Isn’t it possible she just left with him?”
“She would never leave without saying goodbye,” Jonathan intervened. “Besides, she told me she wouldn’t go anywhere with him. We believe she was running away from him.”
“Was he an abusive husband?” the officer asked.
“I can’t confirm that. But Anne had some bruising on her face and arm when I met her after the gala,” Jonathan replied.
“There’s evidence a car was parked outside the broken door for a few hours,” the first officer informed them, after talking with one of his colleagues. “The chances of ever finding them are not good… especially if we have no idea who they are,” the officer warned them.
“I’ll call my mother… she might know something helpful,” I suggested, my stomach roiling at the thought of Ailani in the hands of that man.
