“Yes, if you don’t mind. When Alix came to our parents’ house, she was sporting what turned into a very large black eye. Now, she had a story about walking into some equipment. Is that true?”
“Hell no,” Karla replied, outraged and surprised. “I canna believe that bastard actually hit her though.”
“Who?” I asked, my emotions rising as I thought of Alix being the victim of violence. I had my suspicions, and for them to be confirmed . . . I kicked myself. I should have done more earlier. “Miss McDonald, please. Who are you talking about?”
“Sydney Hale,” Karla answered immediately. “He and Alix were dating up until a few weeks ago. He was the photographer for the shoot. I thought he’d been a bloody cunt during the shoot, but I never thought he’d . . . that fucker.”
“Miss McDonald, this is important to me. Alix borrowed a large sum of money from me, and I suspect she’s being forced to give it to this Sydney Hale. Can you tell me where I can find him?” I was squeezing the steering wheel hard enough to leave divots, and there was an ominous creaking coming from the metal inside. I peeled my hands away by pure force of will. “Please, Karla, Alix is my family.”
“I’ve done shoots with him at his private studio, it doubles as his apartment,” Karla said. “He lives in North Hollywood, near Burbank.”
Karla gave me the address, which I punched into my car’s internal navigation. The drive wasn’t far, and I turned around to get back on the road. “Thank you, Karla. If there’s anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
“No worries,” Karla said. “Just a warning to you, Syd’s a regular dunny rat. Keep your eyes out if you run into him.”
I had no idea what a dunny rat was, but I got the idea. “I will. Thank you again, Karla.”
As soon as I was back on the 5 heading toward North Hollywood and Burbank, I tried calling Alix. Her phone immediately went to voice mail, which for some reason scared me. I tried again, hitting redial as I pushed faster. I moved over to the passing lane, willing the evening traffic to go faster, but finding myself increasingly frustrated. The miles crawled by as I broke every rule I’d ever given myself about driving, weaving in and out of gaps in traffic until my car told me to get off the Interstate. I followed the directions to a dumpy looking apartment building. It looked like something out of the nineteen eighties, and had probably last been shoddily repainted ten years ago. What a professional photographer would be doing living in such a dump was beyond me.
My heart leapt into my throat when I saw Alix’s car parked in one of the visitor spots in the parking lot, and I threw my car into park, blocking her in but not really giving a damn. If someone wanted to call the cops and give me a ticket, I’d be happy about it. Shutting off the engine, I sprinted up to the main gate, frustrated when it turned out to be locked by a number code. Looking around, I saw a gap in the stucco wall that surrounded the building, so I hopped it quickly, landing in what I thought was the middle of someone’s tiny little front yard, probably the building superintendent or handyman. A startled woman stared at me through the window before pointing and beginning to yell.
“Sorry!” I replied before she could come outside. Instead, I ran through onto the main walkway through the building, keeping the number for Hale’s apartment in my mind. It was on the second floor, I quickly figured out, taking the stairs three at a time to the next level, only to find I was on the wrong side of the huge horseshoe that was the building.
I ran as hard as I could, my fear growing with every step. Apartment two twenty-nine was on the corner of the building, and from the way it was shaped was most likely larger than its neighbors. I came closer and slowed to a stop, reaching for the handle, which was locked. “Alix! ALIX! It’s Kade!”
Inside I could hear something moving, then a sound that would haunt me the rest of my life. “Kade! Help me!”
I lowered my shoulder and rammed it into the door frame, the whole thing shuddering but not giving way. Stepping back, I reached up and kicked, wishing I’d chosen kickboxing instead of boxing as a hobby in college. Still, my kick was enough to splinter the simple lock on the door, one of those automatic jobs that was supposed to only supplement deadbolts and chains. The door banged off the hallway drywall before trying to shut on me again, but I threw my shoulder into it again and was in.
Running down the hall, I burst in to see a man, shorter than me but still taller than Alix, kneeling over her with his fist bunched. Alix was on the couch, and the man had one foot on the floor and the other beside Alix’s hip, his left hand reaching for her throat. Alix’s fingers were hooked into claws and she was trying, but he was too far away. Similarly, his legs were positioned so that he could push on her, but she couldn’t knee him in the balls or reach with her hands.