“Dad…” I warn. He’s been better about managing his diabetes ever since Faith and I showed up, but I still worry about him.
“My sugar is fine, and I eat fu—” he covers Faith’s ears. “I eat fucking healthy, okay? I swear to God, I don’t need another carrot. I need cake. A big fucking cake.”
I giggle and tuck my money into the purse. “Fine, but if you get in trouble, you tell Ruby you got it yourself.”
He beams wide. I break into a laugh and lean my head against his shoulder. “You got yourself a deal, sweetheart,” he chuckles.
I have a feeling I just got myself in a pickle because Ruby will confront me, but I don’t care. I’ll put all the blame squarely on Dad. He’s a big boy, he can take it.
Being here is everything I was missing. So if being here makes me happy, what will it take for a man like Badge to feel anything other than misery?
I’m finally getting to do what I love. There’s just one tiny issue that I haven’t taken care of yet. I didn’t get Reaper’s permission to do this, but I don’t really care. I need to do this. For me. For my mental health. I’m more than a guy who can sit behind the computer and research shit. My brain is dead doing the same damn thing every day.
I want to do what I’m good at.
So I started my own private investigation firm called Walker Investigations. I got my PI license, set up my own email for the business, opened a P.O. Box, and even made business cards.
I’m so excited about my business cards, but I’m bummed that I can’t show anyone. Back when I was with the LVPD, Reaper punched me in the face and made me choose.
The Club or my badge.
I picked the Club. These guys are my family. And I will always choose family—but I don’t think it should have come down to that choice. It isn’t okay to take something I love away because he didn’t like the outcome of something. Reaper can be a hothead. He is a good Prez, but there are so many times I want to put him in his place for overreacting.
Or maybe I’m being an ass about it. I’ve been told more than once that I’m grumpy, but I don’t know how I can be too much of an asshole. I didn’t see anyone else volunteering to be fucking Santa for Christmas last year, then getting held hostage and tied to a chair with lights while a bunch of little kids ran around screaming.
I grin to myself as I drive to my first client’s house.
That was a good day.
I come to a slow stop in front of a nice suburban home. Trimmed hedges, perfect garden, too big of a house, and a family SUV in the driveway. I open the file I created on the case when I see I have a few minutes to kill. I want to make sure I know everything before I knock on their door and make them tell me everything they know while I search their house.
Morgan Lillard. 20 years old. Nine months pregnant. Missing for twelve hours.
There’s a common misconception that you have to wait twenty-four hours before reporting someone missing, but I’m glad these people came to me before it got to that point. If someone is missing for longer than usual, it needs to be addressed. Every minute counts.
And Morgan being nine months pregnant tells me she wouldn’t be gone by herself for so long.
Knowing I’m not going to get more information by just sitting here, I tuck the file under my arm and open the truck door. The scorching Vegas sun is hot on my face. I throw on my aviators and my boots hit the ground as I walk up the Lillards’ driveway, passing bright pink potted flowers.
The door is painted blue and has a screen covering so instead of knocking, I ring the bell, the loud ding sounding happy in a miserable time. I let out a breath and can’t help but feel nervous. This is my first gig and I’m just as excited as I am anxious.
I’ll never admit this out loud, but I kind of want to puke. That wouldn’t be a good first impression, would it? This is a five-thousand-dollar job. I don’t want to fuck it up.
The door opens with a creak to reveal a middle-aged woman. She has long brown hair with strands of grey and a few wrinkles around her red puffy eyes. The tip of her nose is red from rubbing it with the tissue she has balled in her hand.
I lift up my sunglasses to the top of my head and offer my hand for her to shake.
“Ma’am. I’m Forrest Walker of Walker Investigations. I’m here to talk about your daughter, Morgan.”
“Yes, thank you so much for coming. Thank you,” she says, sounding desperate for anyone to listen to her. “I’m Marla.” She introduces herself and a silver-haired man comes up behind her, a stern yet sad look on his face. He is stoic, but on the inside, is obviously falling apart. “And this is my husband, Victor.”
“I’d say it’s nice to meet you both, but under the circumstances, I’m sorry I have to meet you at all.” She invites me in and I walk left, heading straight toward the living room. It’s nice. There’s a large, red Victorian couch against the wall with a matching loveseat to the left. A coffee table sits strategically between the two with coasters waiting to be used. There are pictures everywhere of Morgan, from the time she was a baby to when she graduated high school, and then more from college. “She graduated early? She’s only twenty,” I notice, staring at the proud smile on Morgan’s face while she wears the blue cap and gown.
“She skipped a grade. She’s very smart,” her mom explains. “This isn’t like her. She hasn’t checked her phone. She hasn’t answered our messages. It goes straight to voicemail. We’ve called the hospitals to see if she’s gone into labor, but we haven’t heard anything. We can’t find her and she’s smart, Mr. Walker. Our girl is smart. She wouldn’t go off and do something so reckless, please,” she sobs, and her husband begins to rub soothing circles against her back. He places his chin on top of her head and blinks quickly, holding back tears.
“I understand, Mrs. Lillard. It sounds uncharacteristic of her.” I click my pen and open her file where I keep a notepad, then begin to take notes. “Where is the father? Is he involved?”
“No. She’s always been a good girl and is—but she got a little wild in Cancun, had a fling, and when she got home, she found out she was pregnant. She doesn’t even know the father’s name. He doesn’t know and she has no way of getting ahold of him. It was a one-night stand.”
No judgments. Women should be able to have their one-night stands just like men do. I nod, scribbling as I go. “So you don’t think the father found out?”
“No,” Mr. Lillard shakes his head. “That’s impossible. I know it isn’t much, but she told us everything. They were both in Cancun on vacation, didn’t exchange numbers or names. It was a drunk night.”
“I understand.”
“They happen.”
I lift my head. “I’m sorry?”
“Drunk, fun nights. They happen. Our little girl wasn’t—”
I hold up my hand to stop her. “Ma’am, I’m not judging. At all. That’s not my job. I’m just trying to get the facts to help find her, okay? I have no room to talk about drunken nights. When I was younger and in my partying days, I had a few one-night stands too. It isn’t uncommon. I don’t know if that makes you feel better about me or not,” I grumble, realizing I might have been a bit too honest.