Текст книги "Transparent"
Автор книги: Erin Noelle
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GLASSY BLOODSHOT EYES RESTING ATOP dark half-moons stare back at me in the mirror as coarse brown stubble covers the bottom half of my face, straggling unevenly down my throat. The scalding hot shower I just took did nothing to hide the evidence of the sleepless night I spent on the phone and computer, searching frantically for any clues to where Blake could be. For a man who prides himself in remaining calm, cool, and collected in all situations, the hungover, homeless look I’ve got going right now is anything but. Instead, I appear exactly how I feel—disheveled, distraught, and desperate.
I’m teetering on the edge of lucidity, hanging on by a single thread of hope . . . hope that she’s alive. Unfortunately, the person who I’m pretty sure has the most information about my girlfriend’s whereabouts took an impromptu vacation out on a catamaran with friends for the weekend—a trip I don’t believe for one damn minute was sheer coincidence. Emerson knew we wouldn’t be able to reach her via cell phone if she was hundreds of miles off the Pacific Coast, but she has to come back sometime—tomorrow afternoon, according to what she told her parents—and you better believe your ass I’ll be the first one waiting for her at the marina. Demanding answers.
But until then, I have no plans to sit around with my thumb stuck up my ass. No, I’ve got to do something, compile whatever information I can. Between the little that Blake has shared with Jae and me about her past, there’s a dark, sinister story there, and I’m afraid it’s caught up with her. I just can’t figure out how Emerson is tied to any of it.
Rapidly, I shake my head back and forth, forcing myself out of the incessant thoughts swarming through my mind, and propel my body into motion. Staring at myself in the mirror all day isn’t going to bring me any more answers than I have now, so I push off the marble sink and stalk over to the cargo shorts and t-shirt I brought into the bathroom, quickly slipping them on before heading downstairs.
Still in yesterday’s wrinkled clothes, Easton and Jae are already seated at the table, with plates of eggs and bacon in front of them and piping hot mugs of coffee in their hands. Neither of them appear to be very interested in the food, as they both sit quietly, pushing it around with their forks. Clucking around the kitchen in an almost frantic pace, Sarah looks up when she hears me enter the room, and immediately, I know by her somber expression that they’ve told her.
“Oh, Señor Madden. Why didn’t you call me last night?” my longtime housekeeper asks with smeared mascara below her worried eyes, fresh tears clinging to the red lower rims. “I would’ve come to help. You know how I feel about that dear child.”
I nod, striding over to give her a comforting hug. Shortly after Blake and I began seeing each other, Sarah witnessed one of Blake’s flashback episodes, and ever since then, she’s taken a special interest in my girlfriend, very much like a protective mother.
“There’s nothing you could’ve done, Sarah,” I murmur, holding the gray-haired Hispanic lady in my arms. “While we’re waiting to speak with Emerson, Jae, Easton, and I are going to go search her apartment this morning to see what we can find out.”
Releasing her grip, she steps back and wipes the tears from her cheeks. “Haven’t you notified the police? Can’t they be looking for her? Can’t someone be doing something?”
“We have,” I assure her, “but because Blake is an adult, they can’t do anything for twenty-four hours without proof of foul play. I did manage to talk to one of the detectives late last night, and he’s going to see what he can find out, but we were leery to tell them what we know about Emerson, the texts, and any possible involvement until we talk to her.”
“Ay Dios Mio!” she screeches with an incredulous glare. “Why would you do that? I don’t understand. There was obviously foul play involved. Why would you cover for that—” she curls her nose up like she has a bad taste in her mouth before spitting the last words out, “—that pinche bruja.”
“Until we know who we’re dealing with, Sarah, we need to be cautious about what we share,” I explain as I walk over to the coffee machine and grab a travel mug from the cabinet above, though I’m doubtful caffeine is going to put a dent in my exhaustion level. “You know she came from somewhere bad, Sarah. We don’t know what these people are capable of.”
She mutters something else in Spanish under her breath as she walks away, clearly not agreeing with how I’ve handled all of this so far. I understand her anger and frustration. God, do I understand it. But I’ve got a bad feeling about getting the authorities involved until we talk to Emerson. Odds are, whomever Blake was involved with before she moved here and started her life over probably aren’t big fans of the law, and I’d hate to jeopardize her safety by getting them involved if this is something we can handle ourselves.
If it’s money these people want, I’ll pay them whatever they ask. Everything I have. All I want is my sweet girl back. Safe and sound. I just want to hold her in my arms, look into her eyes, and tell her I love her—what I’ve been avoiding saying to her for weeks now. But unfortunately, I think if it was someone just after my money, we would’ve received a ransom note or phone call by this point.
Once the coffee is poured, I glance over at my brother and Jae and pop my chin slightly, giving them the silent ‘Let’s go’. They stand immediately, thanking Sarah for the breakfast they didn’t eat, and move to retrieve their things from the counter. We’ve talked the situation to death; now, we’re all simply hoping we’ll find out something more today.
“I’m not sure when I’ll be home, and I’ll eat out later,” I tell Sarah as I grab my keys and phone, “so you’re free to go whenever you finish things here. If I learn anything, I’ll call you.”
“I’ll be praying,” she replies solemnly as the three of us walk out the back door.
Well, that makes two of us.
Getting into Blake’s apartment is easy, as I still have her spare key and the entry codes from when I came to get her clothes while she was in the hospital a couple of months ago. That was the same day I’d found the envelope full of pictures in her dresser. The same day I stole the old photo of her as a teenager to keep in my desk. Back then, I was curious why she had the pictures hidden away, but today, I’m hopeful she’s got more things stashed in random spots around her home . . . things that could lead us in the direction of finding her.
“All right, I’ll take the bedroom and closet,” I announce once all three of us are inside and the alarm is disarmed. “Jae, you got the kitchen and bathroom, and Easton, start in the living room. Look behind pictures, in drawers, under cushions . . . everywhere. Keep whatever looks like it could help us link her to anyone else or any other place. Mail, notes, anything.”
The two of them nod their agreement and take off on their missions as I stride down the short hallway into her bedroom. Pausing momentarily in the doorway, I inhale a deep breath as I scan the area for anything that catches my eye. The room is damn near spotless. The bed is perfectly-made, not a single wrinkle or lump in the comforter or shams. Zero clutter or personal items are on top of the dresser or small desk, and the laminate wood floors look as if they’ve been freshly swept and polished.
Remembering my comparison of her place to a model apartment the first time I came here, I wonder if she’s always lived like this—in a place that feels so faceless and soulless—and my instincts tell me that’s not the case. Whenever she moved here, it’s almost as if she made a point to not settle in . . . but why? The only sensible answer is in case she needed to leave abruptly, which only creates a shitload more questions I don’t have answers to.
I blow out an exasperated sigh and run my fingers through my hair, deciding to start in her closet. That’s where I keep most of my valuables and personal documents, and I’m hoping she may do the same.
Removing all of the clothes from the metal rod, I dump them on her bed to give myself better access to the small rectangular space, but unfortunately, all that leaves is an empty nook with a few pairs of shoes neatly lined up against the baseboard. No file cabinet. No hidden safe. Nothing at all.
My next spot is under the bed, but it’s clear and free of any objects as well. Cursing under my breath, I begin to rummage through her well-organized nightstand, when I hear Jae call out with alarm, “Madden! Come here, quick! Take a look at this.”
Dropping the tube of ChapStick and package of tissues, I slam the drawer shut and sprint out into the living room, where she and Easton are hovering over a stack of papers spread out on the kitchen table.
“What?” I demand, pushing my way in between them to have a better look. “What’d you find?”
“It’s her lease for this apartment, but look here,” the petite Asian woman urges, pointing about midway down on the typeset page. “There is no job listed, nor any previous rental history. It seems odd that they would’ve approved her without all of this information completed.”
Easton picks up another sheet, narrowing his scrutinizing gaze. “Do either of you know an Owen Doherty?”
“No,” Jae and I reply in unison as we transfer our attention to the paper he’s holding.
“Well, he’s listed as her only emergency contact. Do you think we should call the number?”
Staring down at the black letters, the name Owen Doherty runs through my mind over and over in rapid succession as I try to place it, but I continue to come up blank. It doesn’t ring a bell at all. She’s never mentioned anyone by his name before. I’m sure of it.
“I don’t know,” I admit my unease at calling some stranger and alerting him of Blake’s disappearance, still wanting to hear what Emerson says first. “That could be anyone. We have no idea of who he is to her. Maybe we should run a Google search on the name first.”
“I’m okay with running a search,” Jae announces, picking up another sheet to read for more clues, “but I think we have to call either way. If Blake listed this person as her emergency contact, and I know that’s her handwriting, then we need to contact him. He may be able to help us while we’re waiting around for whatever-the-fuck-the-bimbo’s-name-is to get back.”
Glancing over at Easton, he nods his concurrence as I type the name into the search engine on my phone. Dread takes root deep in my stomach as the screen updates within seconds, displaying thousands of hits that match up with Owen Doherty, Assistant Director of Witness Security, United States Marshals Service.
We all gape silently at the screen, each processing what this means. At first, my emotions override common sense, and I tell myself it’s probably another guy with the same name. Blake wouldn’t have any connection to the Witness Protection Program; after all, she’s not in hiding. But as I scroll through the results page, I remember how she’s always on high alert when we’re in public, her observant gaze always on guard. Then I think about the drastic change in hair color and style from the photo of her I found. All of her family is dead. She has no history before she showed up in California this spring. And of course, there’s the nightmares and the self-harm episodes.
That’s when it all clicks. I don’t know who has my Blake. I don’t know why they have my Blake. But I do know that my Blake isn’t really Blake at all.
“ON YOUR FEET! LET’S GO! Now! No time to waste.” Raze demands gruffly as he barges into the room, the door flying open with such force it slams into the wall with an echoing thud. His Russian accent is heavier when he’s irritated. Earlier this morning, when he brought me breakfast and a fresh t-shirt, I could understand him clearly, but now I have to work to make sense of his words.
His turbulent blue gaze cuts around the room until they land on where I’m curled up in a ball in the corner of the room, and when I don’t jump up right away, he begins to stalk in my direction.
“Did you hear me, girl? I said we have to leave. Right no—” He stops in his tracks once he takes notice of the spaghetti dinner the housekeeper, or at least that’s who I assume she was, delivered a short time ago, now splattered against the wall above where the plate it was served on lies in fragmented pieces on the floor. I tighten my grip on one of the porcelain shards entangled in my trembling fingers. The sharpest one I could find.
“What in the fuck did you do? Are you fucking crazy?” Boring a hole in me with an incredulous stare, he closes the distance between us and squats down to my level.
I keep my eyes trained on him, but say nothing. I’ve got a split-second to make the decision on whether to attempt an escape now with my makeshift weapon, or to wait until a better opportunity presents itself. All day, I’ve been trying to listen to the different muffled voices through the walls as I watched the cars come and go out the window, compiling as much information as possible about my whereabouts and the people in the house. I haven’t learned much except that Raze has been here with me the whole time.
After Anatoli informed me last night of my purpose here with the Russians, Raze escorted me back to the room—this room—where I was permitted to shower and given a bowl of chicken and rice to eat. The rest of the night I lay awake in the darkness, the sound of crickets in the trees, and my conflicting thoughts. Thoughts that ranged from planning my getaway, to wondering how sweet the revenge would be if I actually killed Vincent Ricci.
I’m still not sure where I fall, but I know being held in captivity, being forced to do someone else’s dirty work, isn’t where I want to be. I was Ish’s puppet for way too long, and I did what I had to do to get out of that situation, even though it meant murdering the man I was once in love with. I won’t ever be that naïve girl again. I hold my own strings; I won’t think twice about killing any of these people to regain my freedom. And I’m willing to risk my own life to keep it that way.
My decision is made for me when I’m jerked back to the present as Raze, who’s growling at me in Russian, scoops me up off the floor and hauls me over his shoulder before throwing me onto the bed. I don’t have time to put up a fight before he climbs on top of me, pinning me with the strength of his legs, and I feel a quick prick in the side of my neck.
Then everything goes black again.
The same hazy feeling I had the first time I was drugged blurs my vision when I awaken. Again, I have no idea where I am, nor how long I’ve been unconscious. The grogginess begins to fade slowly as I realize I’m lying on a brown suede couch, covered with a plaid, flannel blanket. Wood-paneled walls, exposed two-by-fours in the ceiling, and flames dancing in the corner fireplace all come into view, and my first thought is I’m in a cabin . . . but where? And why? Is this where I’m going to meet Vincent?
Even with the cover on top of me and the fire warming the close quarters, I feel a chill in the air. Though that may have something to do with the fact I’m only wearing the thin white t-shirt Raze gave me and my own panties, still with no clue of what happened to the dress I was wearing when I was taken. Either way, it’s cold enough outside I can feel the frigid temperatures settling in my bones, which makes no sense for late summer in southern California.
“You’re awake. I didn’t think you’d be up until morning,” Raze states with surprise as he appears from behind a half-wall carrying a glass of water and a plate piled high with food. His heavy boots eat up the shabby carpet in three long strides, and he takes a seat in the equally worn captain’s chair across from the sofa.
Glancing down at the meal as he leans forward and places it on the wooden coffee table, my stomach growls loudly at the sight of the sandwiches and fruit, reminding me I haven’t eaten in quite some time. His eyes flit from my face, over to the plate, then back over to me, before he furrows his brow with frustration.
“If you wouldn’t have acted like a brat earlier and thrown your dinner against the wall, you wouldn’t be so hungry,” he scolds, picking up half of the sandwich and offering it to me with an outstretched arm.
Without thinking twice, I sit up and accept it, taking a big bite, desperate to pacify the empty feeling inside my stomach. “I don’t like Italian food,” I mumble as I chew.
“Hmph,” he grunts as he takes a sip of the drink then thrusts it across the table toward me. “Let me guess. No Brazilian food either?”
I shake my head as I finish eating the cold cuts and rye bread then lift the glass to my lips, nearly choking as the clear liquid burns a path down my throat and into my chest. I’m not sure why I assumed it was water, but as I struggle not to breathe fire and keep my eyes from watering, I mentally add vodka to the list of things I don’t like. Not that it’ll matter if I never escape this situation alive.
“Where are we?” I ask curiously, ignoring his smirk over my reaction to the drink. “Why did we leave the other place?”
Scooting the plate of fruit over closer to me, he pops a grape in his mouth and leans back in the chair, his face now expressionless. “Word hit that the feds were notified of your disappearance and there’s a nationwide search for your whereabouts, so the first order of business has been postponed temporarily. I’m sure your old family back in Chicago will be their first visit, but since the Bratva has such a large presence in L.A., and we have known business involving the Riccis, I’m guessing they’ll be making their rounds to our properties soon enough. We are somewhere safe now, away from people, and we’ll stay here until I’m told it’s clear to return.”
At first, I’m relieved to hear someone’s looking for me and that I’m not going to have to face this Vincent thing immediately, but then I begin to panic. “But that—that could be a long time. Won’t they keep looking for me? And didn’t you realize someone would come looking for me?”
“We did,” he confirms, “but not so quickly. We thought we had until Monday morning, when you wouldn’t show up for work, to get things rolling with the plan. We knew it’d be tight, but we didn’t count on anyone missing you before that. And whoever it was knew to contact the marshals and not just the local police, because they wouldn’t have started a search for you until you were missing over a day. So that got me curious . . .”
I know the answer before I even ask the question, but I have to hear him say it. “Who? Who reported me missing?”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on his thighs, his face stone-like. “Madden Decker, CEO of Decker Enterprises.”
My heart sinks at the sound of his name. Madden. God, he must be worried sick. I was stupid. So fucking stupid to get involved with anyone, knowing something like this would happen eventually. It was inevitable. Only a matter of time.
“How do you know him, girl? Is he a boyfriend?” Raze probes.
Venomous hatred surges through me as I snarl at the burly Russian then gulp down the rest of the vodka from the glass still in front of me. “You’re the fucking mafia. Don’t you people know everything?”
Amused by my outburst, his thin lips curl up in an arrogant smirk. “Usually. But you’ve been off our radar ever since you went into hiding. Believe me, we were just as surprised by the phone call we received Friday afternoon as you were to wake up in my house later that same night. Everything happened fast. We had no intel that you were even in California before the offer was made for you. And from the limited amount of research I’ve been able to do on both you and Mr. Decker, the only link I can find between the two of you is professional.”
I don’t waste any time pondering over the word offer, because my jaded anger quickly morphs into sickening fear, lurching heavy in my gut. Fear for Madden. Fear that I’ve put him in danger. Fear that he’ll end up just like my mom and brother. Carved up and left just to make a statement.
Unconsciously, I close my eyes as I wrap my arms around my waist and dig my fingernails into my sides, rocking back and forth. The familiar pain is oddly soothing. I can’t do this. I can’t do this again. I can’t have another innocent person murdered because of me. I’d rather die myself.
“How do you know him outside of your job? Why would he be looking for you on a Saturday morning?” The accent is heavy again, his deep voice full of warning, booming inside the small room. “Girl, stop playing games, or whatever you’re doing, and answer me now!”
I don’t. I keep swaying on the cushion, submerging my fingertips deeper into the flesh covering my ribs, using the pain to anchor me to reality. My wretched, fucked-up reality.
“If you don’t give me something, I’ll assume he’s just as much a fuck up as his brother is and take care of the whole fucking family,” he threatens with a malicious grin. “Easton’s been a pain in my ass for way too long now anyway.”
The mention of Madden’s brother Easton flips a switch inside my mind’s dark room of a thousand questions. The fog lifts over the missing links to the puzzle, and it’s all suddenly clear. Well, most of it.
Easton is the connection to Emerson, Madden, and the Russians. He is the reason I’m here. Though he may or may not be directly involved, it’s because of his ties to the Kabinovs that Emerson turned me in to them. I remember Madden’s conversations about the money his brother owed the Russians, and how he refused to pay off his gambling debts again. I knew then it was hitting too close to home, but I’d gotten sloppy. Too comfortable in my fake world.
I’m still unsure how they found out I was Bryleigh, but at least I have some answers. Not that it matters much as I sit here in the middle of fucking nowhere. For who knows how long. With a man twice my size, who is a trained killer. Déjà-motherfucking-vu.
“Why don’t you just kill me now?” I ask, not releasing the painful grip I have on myself. “I’m not going to kill Vincent for you, or answer any of your questions. So the worst you can do is kill me. Just do it already.”
Leaping up from the chair, he gets right up in my face, his nose pressed against mine, a wolfish grin playing at his lips. But I don’t flinch. And I don’t back down. He thinks he can scare me, but now that I’ve accepted I’m most likely going to die in the very near future, his attempts are futile. His menacing voice is a waste of breath.
“Are you that stupid, girl? Did you learn nothing when you were married to that piece of shit husband of yours about the way our world works?” Bringing his hand up between our bodies, his strong fingers circle around my neck and squeeze hard enough to make me gasp for air. “I have the ability to make you do things you thought you’d never do, and now your traitor eyes have told me exactly who I need to hurt to make you do them.”
Seething, I spit in his face. “Fuck you.”
With a wicked laugh, he releases his hold and straightens to his full height, towering over me. “Maybe one day. If you’re lucky.”
