“Yep, I taught her everything she knows.”
“Hmm, so her ex was the one who filed, right?”
I shook my head. It was good to see his smile. My phone buzzed and I swiped the screen. Exhaling, I said, “That’s number two from His Majesty, Bernard.”
“Even a royal summons can’t keep you from your breakfast.”
Carefully I stacked the egg and bacon on one half of the toast and put the other half on top. “Look. I’ve got this! I’m an eat-on-the-run expert.” Kissing his cheek, I said, “Please think about asking for the time off.”
He slipped his fingers in the belt loops of my slacks and pulled me close. “Promise me, no Highland Heights.”
All I could see was blue, the same eyes that only minutes ago had been sad. “I’ll do my best.”
“Don’t forget,” he said with another sexy wink, “I have my spatula, and I’m willing to use it.”
“Maybe you could use one from my kitchen. It’s less likely to be in the dishwasher.”
He grinned as I picked up my egg-and-bacon sandwich and grabbed a napkin. On my way to WCJB, I planned to call Bernard. However, sitting in my car, instead of thinking about my boss, my thoughts went to Dylan. Maybe it was time to take the next step. I was ready to let Fred visit.
As I drove I decided that Foster obviously had the wrong Dylan Richards. The one I’d just left had no rich uncle, had no family to speak of, and was willing to work Christmas for the extra money. It didn’t take an investigative journalist to know he couldn’t afford a $1.4 million home in a rich neighborhood.
After finishing my breakfast sandwich, I checked the clock. Since Dina Rosemont lived near San Francisco and it was three hours earlier there, her call would need to wait. As I waited to access the interstate in a slow-moving line of traffic, I pecked a text message to Tracy.
Stella: LUNCH SOUNDS GREAT UNLESS I’M CALLED AWAY. TELL ME WHEN AND WHERE.
And then one to Bernard.
Stella: I’M ON MY WAY, ABOUT THIRTY MINUTES OUT.
My phone immediately buzzed.
Bernard: MEET ME AT THE COFFEE SHOP. USUAL TABLE.
Shit!
My stomach twisted. No doubt he was pissed about my lack of progress. My continual dead ends were beginning to wear on me, and I was a hell of a lot more patient than he. I’d gotten my job based on results. In the last seven weeks I’d produced exactly nothing. I knew Bernard had faith in me, but faith wouldn’t keep me employed.
My lack of progress sure wasn’t for lack of trying. Since the afternoon I’d run near The Light, I’d spent most of my free time doing research, and not only at work. I’d spent hours alone in my apartment surfing the Net. After continually coming up empty on The Light, three nights ago I’d found something. It wasn’t about The Light, but it was interesting.
I was on one of those searches where I clicked site after site, following bread crumbs that kept me moving forward yet never seeming to reach a destination. I was about to call it a night when I poured one last glass of wine and stumbled across a blog post with an interesting thread of comments.
The original post was dated from over five years earlier, and buried deep in the Internet. It was written by a woman who claimed her daughter and son-in-law had been kidnapped by a cult. Though they’d disappeared, with the help of an investigator she’d located them. Once she did, she’d contacted the local police. Her daughter refused to speak to her, or anyone, but her son-in-law had sent a message saying that they were happy and willingly living within the community. Without probable cause, the local police refused to do any more. The woman took her concerns to the federal level, but without proof of wrongdoing, the authorities’ hands were tied. Her post asked for help understanding cults and asked why a young woman who had always had a good relationship with her family would suddenly turn her back on them.
Maybe it was the wine, but the post made me sad, and, of course, reminded me of Mindy. Though this woman’s situation was difficult, at least she knew her daughter was alive. The Rosemonts didn’t have that luxury. The last sentence warned people to recognize that even in this day and age, cults still existed.