Page 57 of The Ruin
Luka
Chapter 24
“Fuck it, I’m calling the police. They’re professionals. Maybe they can track her down.”
“Luka,” Emzee sighs. “You need to chill out. I’m sure she’ll be home soon. For now, just…try to think happy thoughts.”
My sister sucks at trying to talk me off a ledge. It’s been twenty-four hours since the exposé came out, and my wife hasn’t come home yet. Brooklyn won’t pick up her phone or respond to my texts, and everyone I’ve spoken with hasn’t seen or heard from her either, including her parents. I’m frantic. Obviously she’s upset about the article, but I thought we’d weather the storm together. Now I can’t help thinking she’s walked out on me. Or worse—that something bad has happened to her. I don’t understand how Emzee can be so calm.
The last person to see her, as far as I’ve gathered, was my sister. I’ve checked in at Brooklyn’s favorite bistro, the coffee shop that makes the bizarre beet lattes she likes, the park by the water where she goes running. Nothing. I even called Heart and Home to see if she popped in for some volunteer work, but to no avail. As the hours grew long and darkness set in, I had to accept the most likely scenario. She’d gone into hiding.
But why would she be hiding fromme?
Morning came and still no word, so I called out of work. Now I’m camped out in the kitchen in front of my laptop, my third cup of coffee going cold beside me. I’ve had Emzee on speaker for the past half hour. She’s keeping me from having a complete meltdown, but the moment I pull up a local search for private investigators, my anxiety is through the roof again.
“This doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t she at least let me know where she was going? I feel like I’m going to snap.” The words have enough bite to shock me.
“I’m coming over,” Emzee declares. “Stay put. I’ll be there in twenty.”
She hangs up and I scroll through the P.I. listings. I see the names and descriptions, but I don’t really process anything. My mind keeps straying to where my wife might be. Meanwhile, my phone vibrates with reminders of missed calls, voicemails, and a barrage of incoming social media notifications. I turn off the notifications and check to see if I’ve missed anything from my wife. Nothing. Of course not.
I haven’t bothered looking at any social media posts since yesterday when this whole thing happened. There is nothing good that will come from spiraling down that rabbit hole. But the notifications just keep rolling in. How long before some sleazeball journalist figures out she’s missing? The gossip will compound by a million.
I have to find her.
Scrolling through my contacts, I’m about to dial Stefan again, but I stop myself. I’ve already called four times today, and he hasn’t had any info to pass along. Plus, he’s at work. I appreciate that he’s taken all my calls, but after the last one he told me to take it easy and promised he’d reach out the second he heard anything. I have to assume that he’ll keep his word.
Desperate for a lead, I log into our credit card accounts online and check our banking transactions to see if she’s used any cards in the hours since I’ve seen her last. Both are dead ends. It’s like she’s fallen completely off the map. She hasn’t emailed me either.
Fuck Monica for doing this to us. I couldn’t believe it when I’d seen the news on social media. I wanted to go to Brooklyn immediately, to shelter her from the fallout somehow, but the explosion at work made it impossible for me to get away. I had my brother and the board breathing down my neck, asking a million questions, demanding solutions—and fast. But first things first, I had to get on the phone with Maxilene and find out where we stood with them.
During my call with Guy yesterday, I’d wanted nothing more than to tell the exec to go ahead and fire her. Hell, I’m still ready to have her blackballed from this industry for good. But with the fate of my family’s business on the line, I couldn’t pull that trigger. Not yet. Monica Shore is making us all a lot of money, even if it feels like dirty money now.
Turning back to the P.I. listings, I click on the first one that looks good. I enter the number into my cell, but before I can finish, a call from one of Danica Rose’s board members comes through. I stare at the screen but I can’t make myself answer. I’m exhausted. I was in the office until midnight trying to put out all the little fires this newest scandal caused. The funny thing is, dealing with this stuff is like second nature to me now. I’m a fucking professional in saving face. Thanks for that, Dad. I send the call to voicemail and set the phone down.
Suddenly, I hear keys jingling in the door, and Mr. Kibbles runs to the door expectantly. My heart jumps into my throat—until I hear Emzee’s voice cooing at the dog. He trots back into the kitchen with his tail between his legs, clearly upset that it’s not Brooklyn. I know the feeling.
Following just behind him, Emzee comes over and drops her bag on the bar top, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder as I rub my face with my hands. “Hey, brother. Why don’t you go take a shower? I’ll make a few more calls and fix you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She huffs in annoyance. “Shower, then. Move it.”
“I’ll miss her if she calls,” I argue.
“Then leave your phone unlocked and I’ll answer if she calls or texts. Seriously. Go on. You’ll feel better after you clean up.”
Even with my sister trying to literally drag me off of my stool, I refuse to budge. “I won’t feel better until I hear from her. Just sit with me.”
“Ugh, you’re the worst. Fine.” She slides onto the stool next to mine and takes a drink from my mug, making a face. “Let me at least make you a fresh coffee.”
“Sure.”
I talk her through her bumbling attempts to use my La Marzocco, but she finally gets it.
“Who the hell needs a five-thousand-dollar espresso machine?” she grumbles afterward, setting mugs down for each of us.
“You know it makes damn good coffee,” I remind her.
