Page 74 of Lost
Pat went to get the file.
Alfonzo. Zack turned the name over in his head. It didn’t seem likely that Alfonzo would be behind this. The kid had never shown his face. Had never in the entire time Zack had known his name ever been considered a real threat. It seemed more likely that some hostile characters who knew he was in a band would be doing it. There were always people out there who would do anything for money.
Pat returned with the file. It had Dakota’s name printed across the front of it, and contained all the documents relating to the investigation that had opened after she’d disappeared. Zack hadn’t had the heart to get rid of it.
The singer pulled out the photo he was looking for. He held it out for Jack to take.
“Do you recognise him?”
“Yes,” Jack said immediately. His hands trembled as he looked down at the photograph. “That’s him. That’s the guy that had the gun.”
He dropped the photo onto the coffee table between them all, and Zack’s gaze locked onto it. Brown hair; grey eyes; a small scar along his jaw. Alfonzo stared back at him from an old school photograph, looking perfectly innocent. He’d been out of school a year now, if the files were right. There wasn’t much information on him in the file. He’d never truly been considered a person of interest.
He wouldn’t be smiling by the time they were through with him.
Pat caught Zack’s eye.
“Call the police.”
Zack started. “But the note.”Call the police and he dies.”I can’t risk his life like that.”
“They’re trying to scare you,” Pat said, and he sounded so confident that Zack almost believed him. “This isn’t the damn mafia you’re dealing with, Zack. This guy’s just a kid, and I’ll bet his friends are, too. How are they going to know if you get the cops involved?”
“They could be watching the house.”
“They should have been. Grabbing Lysander when he was alone would have been smarter than doing it where Jack could see.” He could see Zack still wasn’t convinced. “The police are trained to deal with delicate situations, man. Tell them what’s going on, and they’ll know what to do.”
“They might screw up.”
“What, then?” Brendan asked. “You’re just gonna walk into this place tomorrow afternoon with a bag full of cash? How are you going to get the money? The bank isn’t gonna hand it to you, even if itisyours.”
“I’ll have to ask for more time,” he said. “I’ll take them as much money as I can tomorrow, and tell them that I’ll get the rest as soon as I can.”
Silence engulfed the room again.
“Yeeeeeah.” Chris snorted. “Becausethatalways works in the movies.”
Georgia squeezed his hands again; Queenie whined from some point behind him.
“Zack.” Pat’s voice was gentle but shaking. A chill ran down Zack’s spine. Pat wasneverafraid. “I get that you’re scared for him. We all are. But I’m telling you, I think calling the cops is your best option. Yes, there’s a risk. But everything’s a risk from now on. I think this is the smallest one. Whether these guys are kids or not, we’re not trained to deal with shit like this. Even if you managed to take every dollar you have to them tomorrow, who’s to say they wouldn’t hurt him anyway?” Hazel eyes met green. “Please.”
Zack looked around at the rest of his friends. Chris shrugged; Aaron and Jack both kept silent. Brendan nodded; Georgia reached out to brush her hand against his cheek.
“Pat’s right,” she whispered. “Calling the police is our best shot.”
But no matter how many of them agreed with Pat, Zack knew that none of them would go against his own wishes. It was his call whether they involved the law or not.
He gave himself sixty seconds to decide.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I didn’t mean for her to die, you know?”
There were a million things Lysander wanted to say to that, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew that, no matter how much he might have wanted to, pissing off Jacob Alfonzo when he had a gun probably wasn’t the brightest of ideas. He didn’t think the guy would actually shoot him, but he wasn’t willing to take the chance. Not when Alfonzo was waving it around like the street thug he was.
He looked away from the moron who had once held his sister’s heart. He’d never understood what Dakota had seen in this idiot. His bad boy nature? The sleeves of tattoos? It didn’t matter anymore. Even tied to a chair, his wrists bound tightly behind him, Lysander dreamed of the way Alfonzo’s face would change shades as he choked the life from him. He wrestled with the tape, determined to escape its hold and make his dreams come true — for Dakota. If he kept sweating the way he was, drowning in the stifling heat of the place, the tape would eventually slide off on its own. Or so he hoped.
He’d been stunned to learn that even in thriving Orange County, there were abandoned warehouses just waiting for people like Alfonzo to put them to use and play their stupid little games. It was practically a movie set, a constructed cliché: walls and high ceilings comprised of rusting aluminium, soaking up the sun’s rays and magnifying them until the inside of the building felt like an oven; windows mostly broken and boarded up, with Alfonzo’s friends occasionally peeking out of them. Even the way they had him locked up in the place was entirely freaking predictable — tied to a single chair in the dead centre of the room. All they needed was a rickety old light fixture hanging over him, and everything would be perfect.
