At the bottom of the paper, there’s a picture of Sloane. It’s not a recent one; her hair is much shorter and she’s posing for the photo, smiling. I doubt very much she’d have smiled for Charlie. It could have been taken from anywhere, but I have a sinking feeling that I recognize this one. I remember seeing it at Sloane’s parents’ house, up on the wall. No way. He fucking wouldn’t.
Lacey ran straight to the bathroom as soon as we got back, but she left her cell phone behind. I snatch it up, searching—does she have it? Does she have it? Yes!—and finding the number I’m looking for.
The phone rings four times before someone answers. A woman. Sloane’s mother. “Romera residence.”
“Hello, Mrs. Romera. My name’s Zeth. I’m one of Sloane’s friends. I came to the house with her the other day?”
“Oh, yes, the man with the tattoos,” she says. “Yes, of course. You came to pick up Lacey, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right, I—”
“My husband wanted to talk to you, actually. He wanted to thank you for getting the car back in one piece. He said it’s running better now than before Sloane took it. Did you have it serviced? If we owe you any money, please just let me know.”
Whoa. Whoa, hang the fuck on. The car? My brain is working overtime, racing ten steps ahead here. A dawning realization comes over me, sending a blast of adrenaline racing through my veins. “You have the car back, Mrs. Romera?”
“Yes, your friend dropped it off first thing yesterday morning. Why? Is everything okay?”
I told Sloane’s dad I was going to get Michael to drive his station wagon back to him, but the truth was that his car was long gone. There was no way to ever get it back from Julio’s. I’d assumed I was going to have to buy another car and try and pass it off as his or something, like a kid who’s goldfish has died. But now she’s telling me my friend already took it back?
“Was he English, Mrs. Romera? The man who brought the car back?” I clench the fist of my free hand, waiting for her to respond.
“Yes, he was. Charles, right?”
God. Damn. It. I exhale, trying to breathe through the inferno of anger that’s trying to take over my whole system. “Did you invite him inside?”
There’s a pregnant pause on the other end of the line, and then Mrs. Romera says, “Yes. I did invite him inside. He stayed for morning tea; he was very charming. Is there something wrong, Zeth? You sound tense.”
“No, no, it’s nothing,” I grind out. “I’m just expecting Charles back here in Seattle is all. I didn’t know how delayed he was going to be.”
“Oh, I see. Well, he said he had to rush off for a flight straight after we finished our tea, so I’d bet he’s already home by now. The flight from here to Seattle’s not long at all.”
“Yes, you’re right, Mrs. Romera. You’re exactly right. I guess I’ll call him, then. Thanks so much for your time.”
“Not a problem. Thank you for looking out for Sloane, too, Zeth. Lacey told us you’re quite taken with her.”
I hang up, squeezing my eyes shut.
This.
Is.
Not.
Fucking.
Good.
He went to their house? Charlie went to Sloane’s fucking parents’ house? And worse than that, worse than the fact that he could have done absolutely anything to them, he went to Julio’s first. He couldn’t have gotten the car otherwise. That means they must be on relatively good terms with one another…and their focus is turned on me.
Fuck.
I throw Lacey’s phone without thinking; it explodes against the wall in a shower of black plastic and glass. I can deal with Charlie coming at me. Julio, too. I can deal with both of them coming at me together, but I can not deal with them fucking with Sloane. Sloane’s oblivious middle-class parents. I will not let that happen.
I’ll tear their fucking worlds apart before I let that happen.
It’s time to make a move.
******
“Are you high?”
“No.”
“Yeah, you are, man. You’re fucking high. It’s broad daylight. At least let me come with you.”
“No. I want someone watching Sloane’s parents’ house. Twenty-four hours a day, Michael. Find someone. And I want you to watch Sloane. Make sure Charlie’s boys don’t go anywhere near her. If they do, don’t skimp on the bullets.”
Michael sighs on the other end of the phone. He knows better than to argue with me, especially when I’m tasking him with watching over Sloane. This time he wants to argue, though. He knows where I’m headed and he thinks I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have, but there’s no other way to handle this.