Page 33 of You'll Never Know
His father’s face crumpled, and he suddenly looked much older than his forty-four years. “That bitch stole all of our savings. She cleaned out our accounts. Didn’t leave us with a single fucking dollar. You’d think she’d at least have left me with enough cash to take care of you, but she didn’t. She took it all for herself. Why do you think we had to move?”
Reed pressed his thumb into the center of his palm and thought about it. He’d loved their old house. His dad had built him a treehouse in the back yard where he’d played for hours. He’d loved the woods behind it, too, and splashing with his friends in the stream that curled through the trees like a snake. Riding bikes in the cul-de-sac was a daily ritual. He knew everyone in the neighborhood; they played football and tag and drank Cokes in the park. One of the worst days of Reed’s life was when his father told him they had to leave. He’d pitched a fit until his father tossed him in his room and told him he had to stay in there until he got it together.
We’re moving. Get used to it.
After that,homebecame a thing of the past. They had no home.Not really. They chased work wherever his dad could find it. Home became a cheap collection of motel rooms and apartments that smelled of mold and dust and old, stale air. These rundown places stuffed full of rundown people. Everyone so jammed together Reed could hear every fight and moan through the cracked plaster walls. Reedhatedthose places. He hated the people there, too. And he’d hated his father for dragging him along. But Reed never realized until now—until this very second—that all of it was his mother’s fault.
His father was telling the truth. He looked like he was about to cry. “Reed, if there’s one thing I can teach you in life, it’s this. You can never, ever, trust a woman. You might think you can. And you’ll want to. Girls are pretty. I get it. But you can’t. Do you understand why?”
Reed had heard this kind of thing from his father before, but the words had mostly drifted in one ear and out the other. Not this time. After hearing this about his mother, he did understand—he did, and he wouldn’t forget it. He’d never trust a girl or a woman again. He nodded.
“Listen,” his dad said, giving Reed’s shoulder an attaboy squeeze, “I’m proud of you. What you did today was clever. It was industrious. Bold. You’re an entrepreneur if I’ve ever seen one.”
“What’s that?” Reed asked, surprised. After the meeting with Principal Sparks, he’d expected to get grounded. Not this.
“An entrepreneur is someone who sees an opportunity and goes for it, exactly like you just did. C’mon,” He said, opening his door.
“Where are we going?” Reed asked.
Reed’s dad gave him a sly wink and smiled. “We’re at the mall, aren’t we? Let’s go get you those shoes.”
Chapter 17
GRANT
I tear down US 550, pushing the Yukon as fast as I can without running it off the Million Dollar Highway—a twenty-five mile stretch of hairpin turns and sheer cliffs named after the construction cost per mile combined with the priceless views. Most who drive it consider it to be a perfect slice of American heaven.
Right now, it’s hell.
I can’t think of anything other than the photos of Avery. They flash through my head one by one. Avery, with the crusted trails of blood pouring from her nose over her bruised and swollen upper lip. The shot of her gagged, the material sawing through the corners of her mouth like a knife. Avery sitting there, stripped naked, with her breasts covered in grime.
Did they rape her?
Tears fill my eyes and I wipe them clear. I can’t linger on thoughts like that. Thinking about what these people have done to Avery won’t help me right now—and it won’t help her. I have to hit this deadline. I need to focus on getting home. I can’t lose my wife.
She’s already gone.
“Stop it!” I growl to no one. “Just stop already!”
I have ninety minutes and forty have already passed since I got thenote. It’s not enough time, and the line of cars in front of me aren’t helping me ease my nerves. I know it’s probably a bunch of tourists and retirees taking in a bit of countryside before dinner. Normally, I wouldn’t begrudge them. Hell, I’d be going as slow myself. But right now, I need to pick up the pace. Only I can’t. Not with thousands of feet of open air lying on one side of the road and a mountain on the other. And even if I could cut around them, driving like a madman up here will get me pulled over in a second. That can’t happen.
Contact the police and she’s dead.
It’s all I want to do. But it would be foolish after their warning. It would—wait, maybe thereisa way to reach them, especially if I’m not the one calling.
I have the courier’s phone.
Steering with one hand, I pull it out and search for the number to the Ouray Police Department. A horn blares and I flick my gaze back to the road a second before I drift across the center lane and plow straight into an oncoming truck. My heart thrashes but I manage to jerk the wheel and guide the Yukon back into my lane. Then I punch in the number with my thumb and hit dial. The phone rings.
“Police department,” a female voice answers in an overly cheerful tone.
“Yes,” I say. “Officer Gunn, please.”
There’s a pause and then, “Who?”
“Officer Gunn,” I repeat.
“There’s no Officer Gunn here.”
