Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“Fuckin’ hell, boy. I guess this is the definition of food porn.”
He snickered adorably to himself.
“Is this your place?” I had to ask.
“Sort of? It’s my dad’s franchise—he has twelve locations on the West Coast, two in Denver, one at Houston’s airport, and then me. I run this one.”
Lucky me. I didn’t get enough sweetness in my life.
Gael sent me a teasing little grin. “I thought you knew everything about me already.”
I smirked.
I knew too much and not enough.
Gael was off on Saturday and said he was going to stay at home all day and read and work on a paper, so I had no reason to head into town and be a Waffled squatter.
He had, thankfully, let me install a camera in the entryway outside his little apartment, which sent me notifications whenever someone came and went. No need to buy better locks; he was well prepared in that area. He had an alarm system too.
It was an uneventful day. I cleared the driveway of what I hoped was the last snow, I talked to Reese and Colt, I went through the list of visitors on Gael’s profile page, as well as members out of state, and nothing struck me as suspect. It was as if Caleb had vanished—which made me all the more alert.
The guy worked as an assistant manager at a talent agency in San Francisco, and he’d canceled his monthly parking permit near his work. But when I called the agency and asked to speak with him, they said he was on vacation.
I sat down on my couch and looked over my notes.
In the past, as per Gael’s reports and what he’d told me yesterday, Caleb tended to reach out over weekends. He didn’t drink alcohol or smoke. He wasn’t on any medication. In college, he’d studied computer science, and Gael described him as an “intense guy who went to the gym as much as he tinkered with computers.”
I’d never worked in cybercrime, so my experience was limited when it came to modern spyware. But I did have a good network of connections, and I’d sent the photo Caleb had posted before Christmas to a friend, in hopes I’d find out more about the device Caleb was using. If I could locate his phone or computer, chances were I’d find him too.
I had to catch up on my real work too. I was passionate about this case. Because screw jilted wives and husbands who wanted to spy on their spouses. It did pay the bills from time to time, but I preferred clients with less drama in their agendas. Like right now, when I worked for an organization that specialized in tracking down lost family members. It was my job to vet the people who were looking for someone, just to make sure they weren’t the ones someone might want to escape or hide from.
I’d never spent so much time on social media before.
I followed trails everywhere, whether it led me to another Facebook account or to darker corners of the internet. I’d red-flagged several potential clients for the organization who needed further investigation that went beyond my abilities.
At around nine PM, I got a text from Colt.
I know you’re sitting at home doing nothing. Come over to the house and have a beer with us.
I blew out a breath.
But I’d showered and changed into sweats…
No, I wasn’t in the mood. I wanted to find this fucking Caleb guy.
Man, had I become boring since I’d left the city. I’d retired from the MPD, sold my condo, bought a little house west of Manassas, and started living on TV dinners. I was in bed by ten most nights.
If my mamá could see the state of my fridge and freezer right now…
She’d throw it all out and curse at me.
“You used to cook all the time, mijo! Sometimes for hours! What is this? Cheese in a bottle? Ptui!”
Then she’d get so heated that she would switch to Spanish and bring Jesus, Mary, and Joseph into the argument too.
I was forty-two years old, but a scolding from her could still make me feel like a kid.
This couldn’t go on. I didn’t have too much work on my plate, so I couldn’t blame that anymore either. It was an excuse I’d used ad nauseum anyway. For everything. Oh, you’ve barely decorated your house. Yeah, I work too much, Dad. You comin’ to the kink party? Can’t, I have work.
I withdrew my feet from the coffee table and eyed the moving boxes in the dining area.
Maybe it was time to unpack my home.
I’d bought the kind of house I’d had my eye on for years. Too close to the nearest strip mall to be called “out in the sticks,” and too far away from street grids and neighborhoods where the houses all looked the same. I had four neighbors and fields all around, but I could still get takeout delivered in twenty minutes.