Page 55 of Requiem & Reverie

“Fine. Five-thirty tomorrow.”

As I roll up the window, my phone dings. Security cameras picked up movement in Nola’s house, and I scroll through the different rooms, until I find Nola in her bedroom, tearing through her pillow, as if searching for something.

We’d agreed to have her stay at the hotel for the night. What the hell is she doing home?

I glance up briefly to catch the silver car exiting the lot, and pause. I’ve seen that car before, the busted-out taillight and the co-exist sticker attached to the trunk. It’s the same car I nearly ran into in Nola’s driveway, a couple weeks back.

Throwing the car into drive, I prepare to follow him, but another glance down at the interior cameras shows Nola’s left the house. I check the outdoor cameras to find her car isn’t in the driveway.

Perhaps she’s heading back to the hotel.

I click on the GPS tracker to see where she’s headed, but her location doesn’t pop up.

What the fuck?

Hitting the gas, I tear out of the parking lot, and call her phone. Straight to voicemail.

“Motherfuck!” I call the number again, which goes straight to voicemail a second time. “Goddamn this woman!”

I follow the path back to my hotel and scan the lot for any sign of her Jeep.

Nothing.

Keeping my eyes peeled, I head toward her house, taking note of every damn car that passes me along the way, until I reach her driveway.

The house is empty. A few lights are left on, but the motion detector indicates no movement inside.

I review the footage, rewinding it to minutes before, and see that she exited her driveway and drove off in the opposite direction.

Car in reverse, I back out, then head in the same direction.

Carl must’ve contacted her. Bastard must’ve gotten her phone number, somehow, and contacted her. There’s no way she would’ve left, otherwise.

How?

My mind is spinning a million miles a second, trying to make a connection, but all that comes to mind is that silver car at Nola’s house a few weeks back. She said he’d stopped in to check on her. He’d driven her home from the bar that night.

Simon. The little prick knows more than he’s letting on, and I should’ve gone with my gut, should’ve strung the bastard up and watched him bleed out, until he told me what I needed to know. He has some connection to Carl, one I’d probably have been able to slice out of him eventually.

That’s what I get for trying to be a nice fucking guy.

A normal guy.

Normal doesn’t work in my family. And it sure as hell doesn’t work for me. It never has. I’ve had to be ruthless and cunning, always staying one step ahead. I’m ripping myself apart as I drive around, aimlessly searching for Nola’s Jeep.

I pull off into a Dunkin Donuts parking lot, click on the camera app again, and review the video I watched back at the Conservatory. The one of her tearing apart her pillows. There was something she was searching for back at the house, and she seems to find that something stuffed inside her pillowcase, before she punches something into her phone and leaves.

But whatever she found is still lying on the bed.

Hammering the gas, I head back to Nola’s house. My pulse rate feels like it’s about to gallop away into the sunset, my hands are sweaty against the wheel, and by the time I reach her house, I’m so goddamn wired and pumped full of adrenaline, I could punch through a brick wall.

Once inside Nola’s bedroom, I find the small scrap of paper lying on her bed. It holds an address that I quickly program into my phone before flipping it over to find Sweet Dreams written on the other side.

The address must be a trap.

20

Nola