Every time he opens a door, I brace myself and release a sigh of relief when Z is not under the white sheet.
“He’s not here,” I confirm after we uncover each and every corpse. “How can you just decide that was Mr. Hutchence?”
“His wallet said so,” The officer says defensively.
I laugh. “So, you find a wallet and you just assume? You should be fired.”
I look at Zeke’s ID, and I can see why they said he looks like him. Z gestured weirdly in his license. The picture is from when we were still playing in the band. His hair is long and a blue-green color—like the dead guy. It looks more like a picture of a teenager playing in a photo booth and not from the DMV.
Without a word, I march outside the building. As upset as I am by the fucking confusion, I’m relieved too. The weight pushing me down lifts as I breathe the fresh air. There are several things I can do, starting with finding Zeke.
Tucker might have access to his uncle’s software. When I call him, the call goes to voice mail after the third ring. I send him a text. He doesn’t respond.
I call a few more times until he finally picks up and groans, “This better be important.”
Who the hell sleeps at two o’clock in the afternoon? Unless he’s not at home. “Where are you?”
“Thailand, on business,” he yawns.
“You just started the company.”
I hear some rustling on the other side of the phone, and then he says, “I want to get this off the ground fast. What do you need?”
Him, but he’s too far away. The guy has his own set of problems, brought on by himself but also Zeke. Instead of interrupting his life and giving him yet another headache, I ask, “If I need help locating a missing person?”
“What is this for?”
“A favor for a friend,” I respond.
“Can it wait?”
I run a hand through my hair. It’d be easier if I tell him the truth, but then he’s going to freak out and fly back. He might hate Zeke even more because he just can’t take anything seriously—even after the mess that happened a month ago.
“No. Do you know anyone? I need someone discreet.”
He huffs. “Byron Langdon,” he answers with the name of a music manager. What the fuck, Tucker? “He does some undercover work for my uncle, and he’s the tech guy of his unit. His team goes rogue sometimes. I’ll text you his number.”
“I have his number,” I say baffled at his suggestions.
Why would a celebrity’s agent work for a high intelligence agency? He’s friends with Grace, Tuck’s cousin. Is that why he’s working for him? The why he works for them doesn’t matter. His showbiz experience is what’s convenient. He’ll understand the urgency, and the reason why he has to be discreet. “You’re right. He might be the best person to help me.”
“Good,” he says. “If you don’t mind, I’m going back to sleep. Don’t call me unless someone dies.”
Let’s hope I don’t have to call him. “Thanks, Tuck.”
After hanging up with him, I dial Byron’s number. He picks up immediately. “None of my guys want to give you an exclusive interview.”
“I had no idea you worked for the Bradleys,” I say using the same arrogant tone he just did. “That’s interesting.”
“No, I work with Beacon Aldridge, who happens to be close to Mason Bradley.”
I laugh. “You’re sticking to that story, huh?”
“It’s not a story,” he argues. “What do you need?”
“A huge favor. Zeke Hutchence went missing a few days ago,” I explain to him like any other business deal we discuss. “I don’t want anyone to know that we’re looking for him, but I need you to find him now.”
“Missing?” His voice comes out unsettled. “You lost him before or after he partied in Cancun? Maybe the federales shot him before he came back?”
“You’re not funny, asshole. This is fucking serious.” Several bystanders stop at the sound of my voice.
I step inside the service car and explain to him everything that’s happened since I found out that Zeke had left the center. Once I finish, he asks, “Why don’t you ask the boss?”
“Listen, I don’t want anyone to know that he left rehab. Not until he’s safe.”
“If he was one of my guys, I’d be combing the entire planet until I found him,” he states. “Let me call the boss.”
“I told you I don’t want—”
“I don’t report directly to Mason Bradley,” he interrupts me. “Yes, he’s the owner of the company, but my boss likes to bend the rules.”
“Tell him that I’ll pay whatever he wants,” I beg, grasping the phone as I latch onto my last hope.
“He’ll agree to do it,” he assures me. “The guy is a hard ass but has a soft spot for musicians.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I’ll pay him whatever he needs.”
“Dude, this is what we do for family,” he states. “Please send me some recent pictures of him. Are you controlling the media? If someone gets wind of this, things might get crazy.”
“I have people watching over it,” I assure him.
“Go book a room, rest, and wait for my call,” he says.
Chapter Three
Ethan
I spend the rest of my day and the entire night talking to my team. Everyone is focused on the news, all the social media outlets, and most of the gossip outlets that feed stories about celebrities like Zeke. We already prepared a statement in case this goes viral. However, not a word has been said about him since I released the statement that the pictures from Cancun are old and he’s at a retreat finding himself.
Hannah only pays attention to the magazines. That gives me some room to act without raising suspicions that something is wrong. The day she finds out about this ordeal will be because Zeke is fine and on his way to recovery. He has to be alive.
It’s almost six in the morning when my phone beeps. The words on the screen stop my heart. Byron Langdon. My skin tingles with fear. Bad news travels faster than good news. He’s calling too soon. With a trembling hand, I slide my finger along the screen.
“Yes?” My throat is tight. I have trouble producing a sound. My voice is a whisper.
“We found him. I’m texting you the address,” a male voice I don’t recognize states. “Meet us there.”
Fucking Byron. Who is his boss? I can’t second guess myself. Thank fuck I rented a car yesterday. The drive from Ft. Lauderdale to Miami takes almost an hour. Who knew there’s traffic on I-95 so early in the morning?
I park my car and head toward the entrance of Lutheran Medical Center. As I get closer, I spot Beacon Aldridge, the frontman of Too Far From Grace. Next to him is Byron. Their somber faces don’t reveal anything. The hope I’ve been holding since I spoke to Byron evaporates as I put one foot in front of the other. There’s a vise clamping my lungs, making it hard to breathe. He’s gone, but he can’t be. I still feel him.
It’s grief talking.