Series: Sean Moriarty
Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 113805 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113805 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“There’s a waitress missing,” Uriel says, scanning the area. “The little blonde one.”
“I’ve dealt with the situation,” I say over the music and walk towards the front doors.
“Fuck. Was that why you disappeared? Did she see something?” Nathaniel asks the moment we’re out the front doors and away from any prying ears.
“I’ve dealt with it,” I say again and walk to the car to get in.
“Leaving a body behind isn’t going to make this easy,” Uriel points out.
I get into the backseat. “She’s alive and healthy.”
“Define both those words, Jude,” Uriel demands.
I can understand his hesitation in believing me but I still have to keep Eden in a bubble of my safekeeping.
“Exactly that. Breathing of her own accord and walking under her own power,” I say to them both and it’s true.
She’s safe.
For now.
Looking down into her files, I scan through all the pertinent information. Twenty-two years old, married, but her new townhouse has only her on the lease.
Dead criminal father, mother is a homeless junkie somewhere. Her soon-to-be ex-husband has gambling debts. Not so much as to warrant whoever he owes to search for him, but enough that he’s been keeping a low profile.
Checking her financial records, it’s easy to see she’s broke. Broke as can be. Either that’s by the ex-husband’s design or other unfortunate circumstances.
She needs a stable income, and that’s what the job at the club is providing her. Not that it’s much, but better than nothing, I suppose.
Although it’s odd she got the townhouse before she got the job, and I don’t see any record of previous employment.
I’ll investigate whatever’s going on with her though when we see each other next.
One thing of note, the townhouse she’s renting is owned by a company that sounds familiar.
“Does Stockton Holdings ring a bell to you gentlemen?” I ask.
“Isn’t that one of James’s property management companies?” Uriel says from up front.
That’s it, I knew I recognized it. I just couldn’t place it.
James owning the company that runs the rental property fits in a small piece of the puzzle I’m solving in my brain.
This could work out to my advantage.
I’m tempted to dial James right now, but I need to make sure that what I ask of him is kept between us.
I don’t want to risk my little angelic secret getting out.
The drive to my house to drop me off seems impossibly long. It’s like every single red light or stop sign must get in our way.
Even a fucking train crossing is lined up with traffic.
Is it possible that this is the universe’s way of telling me to slow my thoughts? To think things through and keep a clear head?
Or is it just the universe’s way of saying fuck you for finding something worthwhile?
Either way, my fingers continue to skim through her rather bland file. Nothing in here is really of merit. Her past almost entirely blank.
The only real thing of interest I can find in her file is that there was a domestic disturbance call to her home when she still lived with her ex-husband. She refused to press charges or talk to the police, beyond telling them she fell.
Those words.
Those two fucking words send heat through my veins.
She fell.
I’ve heard those words before, and I know what they mean. The cops knew what they meant and left her alone to be further abused by that pile of shit.
The suddenness of the car stopping in front of my home sends a jolt through me.
“Your humble abode, sir,” Uriel says with a laugh.
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
Getting out of the car, I stop, lean my head back in and add, “I don’t give a fuck what Lucifer or Simon says, I will not be chauffeured around any longer.”
Slamming the car door shut, I can tell I’ve left both of my fellow brothers in the car confused by my sudden anger.
They don’t know of the words ringing through my skull.
Angry, wrathful mutterings filter through my brain as my little voices tell me the truth.
Walking up the driveway to my house, I look around and try to spot any potential attackers out there.
Any threats to my well-being.
Nothing.
Nothing to vent my rage on.
The house looks bleak as always to my bored mind.
It’s a cold construct that has no warmth or draw to it.
When they forced me to find a home for myself in this forsaken land, I chose something that fit the mood I was in. Bland, bored, and without any distinguishing character to it.
I wasn’t planning on being hobbled to the city for longer than my recuperation took.
But look at me now… it’s been how many solitary days of confinement in this suburban hell?
Walking into the house, I enter my code to set the alarm.
Is this the home I’m going to bring my angel back to?
She has a child, and the barren rooms are hardly child ready.