Michael folds the newspaper in half and places it on the table, fixing a blank look on me. “You want me to make some calls? Find out if anyone knows anything about Charlie?”

“That would be useful.” I’m being a massive dick, but I can’t help it. I can’t even sit still. Michael’s right—I’m literally vibrating in my seat, twitching every time the fucking bell on the door jangles and someone-who-is-not-Sloane walks in. Michael pulls out his phone and starts making calls. I stare at the ceiling, my head kicked back, trying to remember how to not fucking lose it.

I have no idea who this person is that I’ve become, but I’m honestly a little frightened of him. The old me has been wrestling with this new guy, and I have to say, this new fucker’s beating the cold, calm, collected version of me hands fucking down.

Some people might consider this progress, I suppose. Right now, I’m not sure what I think. I know I’m fucking worried, and that it feels fucking horrible.

“Yeah, yeah, buddy, I understand. No problem. I appreciate that. Thank you.” Michael hangs up his call, shrugging his shoulders. His suit’s not even wrinkled from sleeping three hours in the back of that monstrosity of car. I feel like shaking him. “Trey and West haven’t heard a thing about Charlie all week. They didn’t even hear about the showdown at the apartment, so they’re either lying or they’ve had their heads up their asses since Monday. They said they would let me know if they do hear anything, but I’m pretty sure they’re not going to.”

Fuck. I scowl at Michael’s cell phone lying on top of his discarded newspaper as though it’s solely responsible for the lack of any worthwhile leads. Thing is, people don’t like talking about Charlie. It’s bad fucking karma. You say the bastard’s name and he appears. Causes havoc wherever he fucking goes. The dark characters Michael’s calling on for information know better than to even think the name Charlie Holsan, let alone rat on him.

“We just need to be patient, Zee. Charlie’s hardly father-of-the-year material. Lacey will cut her losses and run at the first opportunity. She knows how to get hold of you, right?”

“Yeah. Right.” The last burner I had before Lace vanished into thin air is still sitting in the pocket of my jeans like a ticking fucking time bomb. No one has the number but Sloane, Lace, Michael and Rebel, but for some reason it just doesn’t feel safe. If it weren’t for Lacey, I would have ditched the thing days ago.

I take it out and toss it onto the paper next to Michael’s. My heart nearly explodes out of my damn chest a second later when a ringtone blares out like a goddamn klaxon. I think it’s mine. For one long second I’m filled with dread—Sloane or Lacey. Either way it could be bad news. Terrible news. But it’s not mine; it’s Michael’s.

He picks it up and checks the caller ID. “Rebel.” He looks up at me, frowning. He answers the call, talking in hushed tones. “Tell me,” he says.

I watch Michael’s composure fragment and disintegrate altogether over the next seven seconds. “What do you mean, she ran?”

The words are enough on their own to have me lunging across the table and snatching the phone out of Michael’s hands. “She ran?” I can feel my heart beat in my fucking temples.

“I had one of the boys watching her. She sat with the DEA bitch for five minutes, looked at some photos, and then bolted. Some old guy apparently stopped her, and then the fucking men in black swept in and grabbed her ass.”

“So they arrested her?” I fucking knew this was a bad idea. My hands begin to shake with rage. “If she’s in any trouble, I swear to god I’m going to skin you alive, motherfucker.”

Rebel grunts down the phone. It’s the sort of sound I would make if I were accommodating someone who should know better than to flare up at me. “There were no handcuffs. She hugged the old man. She definitely wasn’t arrested, asshole, so you can calm the fuck down.”

“Calm the fuck down? Okay, I’ll calm the fuck down when you tell me exactly where my girlfriend is.”

The word girlfriend trips off my tongue before I even have a chance to second-guess it. No second-guessing is required, though. Sloane is my girlfriend. She’s even more than that.

“I don’t know exactly where she is, obviously. I wouldn’t be calling you otherwise. Any idea who the old guy is?”

I fight the urge to smash my damn fist through the wall. “He have gray hair? Skinny? Beginnings of a tan?”

Rebel’s voice grows distant as he consults with the guy who must have been on point in the mall’s food court. And then, “Yeah, sure. An old guy.”

Yeah, sure doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, but it’s better than nothing. The old man is Sloane’s dad. Has to be. Dr. and Mrs. Romera must have returned early from the trip Sloane sent them on. They were supposed to be well out of the way while this was going down, but now it would seem Sloane’s father is right bang in the middle of it all. Didn’t see that coming. Shit. “Okay, well…fuck. I suppose I’d better call her mom.”

I suppose I’d better call her mom. Ridiculous. Who the fuck am I? Michael aims a look at me that says he’s thinking the exact same thing. Rebel chuckles down the phone. “If you want, man. Just whatever you do, don’t fucking blow this for me.”

“I could give a shit about you, motherfucker,” I snap. “You’re walking a fine line right now. You’re off on some mission to save some girl when you’re married to Alexis? You think Sloane isn’t one hundred percent pissed about that? Why don’t you just—”