Chapter 25: Daddy’s Dirty Little Secret: Chapter 25

I woke up with a crick in my neck and the smell of someone’s microwave dinner lingering in the air. The hallway light above me buzzed faintly, flickering every few seconds. My legs were stiff from being folded under me, and my back ached from slumping sideways against Amelia’s door. For a second, I couldn’t remember where I was.

Then I saw the worn floral mat under me, the mail slot, the closed door I’d been staring at for hours. I sat up slowly and rubbed the side of my face. My drool had left a faint mark on the denim of my jeans and dried to my jaw. My phone was dead in my pocket. I must’ve fallen asleep sometime after midnight, maybe later. No messages. No footsteps on the other side of the door. No signs of life at all. Just silence.

A shuffle of movement pulled my attention down the hall. A woman carrying a folded newspaper and a chipped ceramic mug passed by. She was older, mid-sixties maybe, in a faded house robe and slippers with a sag to them. She slowed when she saw me, her brow knitting in quiet concern.

“You waiting on someone?” she asked.

I stood, brushing off the back of my pants. “Amelia Johnson. This is her place. Have you seen her?”

She shifted the mug to her other hand and squinted. It was an expression that revealed disdain, as if the folks who lived in this apartment building bound together and hated outsiders just for existing. “Not for a few days, no.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. I live two doors down. Usually when she’s going out of town, she lets someone know. Leaves a note, asks for the mail to be brought in.” She nodded toward a small stack of envelopes tucked under her arm. “She didn’t this time. I figured maybe it was a quick trip, but it’s been … four days now … I think?”

I stared at the mail. Utility bills, a magazine, something official-looking from a doctor’s office. There were more letters, but the return senders’ addresses were hidden. Still, nothing anyone would leave behind on purpose.

“Has anyone else been here? Someone picking her up, stopping by, anything like that?”

She tilted her head, thinking. “Well, there’s that friend of hers, the one with the glasses. Comes by sometimes, nice enough. Little over friendly.” She leaned in and spoke out the side of her mouth for a second as she narrowed her eyes in judgment. “Might be a poofter.”

“Godwin?” I shook my head wondering what the heck that was supposed to mean, but I figured she knew and the expression on her face being one of criticism, I figured it wasn’t good. People were so judgmental these days.

“That’s the one. He’s been around lately. Last week I saw him here twice in the same day.” She frowned. “This just doesn’t feel like her.”

No. It didn’t feel like her at all.

I nodded, thanked her, and watched her disappear around the corner. The door closed softly behind her, and I was alone again—privacy to obsess and stew in my own concern.

Godwin had said she needed time, said she wasn’t in danger. I believed him when he said it. Or I wanted to believe it. But Amelia didn’t just vanish like this. She didn’t go radio silent, didn’t quit a job she’d worked her fingers to the bone to earn, didn’t let someone else collect her mail without saying a word.

And now I was standing here like some half-drunk idiot who’d passed out on a hallway floor instead of doing something useful. Instead of paying attention sooner.

I turned back to her door and knocked again, even though I knew it was pointless. My voice came quieter than I expected.

“Amelia.”

No answer.

The silence didn’t feel neutral anymore. It felt wrong.

I stepped back and stared at the lock, running over every conversation we’d had in the last few weeks. Every word I missed. Every shift in tone I should’ve questioned. Every moment she looked like she wanted to say something and didn’t.

Space was one thing.

This was something else.

And if I was right—if she was in trouble—then I might already be too late.

I took the stairs down instead of the elevator, not sure why. Maybe I needed the movement, something to distract me from the quiet scratching under my ribs that said something was off. The building felt hollow. The hallway was still, and the city outside felt colder than when I’d arrived. I walked without rushing, hands in my pockets, the kind of tired that sinks into your shoulders and makes everything a little slower.

Outside, the street was still. My car was parked under the same dim streetlamp I’d left it under hours ago. I slid behind the wheel, turned the engine over, and sat there for a moment with my hands still on the ignition.

I pulled out my phone and plugged it in, then called Laurence. It rang once, then went to voicemail. I didn’t bother with a message. He wouldn’t hear it tonight anyway. I wasn’t sure what I would’ve said if he had picked up. That I’d been camped out on Amelia’s hallway floor like some idiot with no sense of boundaries? That her neighbor said she hadn’t been home in days, and it didn’t line up with anything I’d been told?

I dropped the phone onto the passenger seat, shifted into gear, and started driving. The streets were empty, traffic lights blinking yellow as I passed through intersections without stopping. I kept one hand on the wheel and the other curled tight around nothing, trying to ignore the way everything suddenly felt thinner—less stable, like whatever I’d told myself before had stopped being enough.

By the time I got home, the sun was beginning to edge up behind the hills, casting a dull silver light across the skyline. I didn’t bother changing clothes. I dropped my keys on the counter, turned on a lamp in the living room, and sat down on the edge of the couch without bothering to lean back. I stared at the darkened windows across the room, waiting for some sort of clarity that never came.

The house felt colder than usual, or maybe it was my anxious tension, but I was shivering. I turned my phone over in my hand again and again, checking the lock screen every few minutes as if something might appear. There were no new messages or missed calls. I kept thinking maybe I had overlooked something—a sign, a detail, anything that might explain where she had gone.

But there was nothing.

I moved to the kitchen, poured a glass of water I didn’t drink, and stood there with my hand braced against the counter for several minutes before I finally gave in and took my phone out again. I searched for the non-emergency police line, punched in the number, and waited through the usual list of options before someone picked up.

When the call finally picked up, the woman on the other end had a calm, almost mechanical tone—courteous but detached, like she’d been on this shift too long to bother with warmth. “Metro Police, Missing Persons Division. How can I help you?”

“I need to check if someone’s been reported missing,” I said. “Her name is Amelia Johnson.”

There was a pause as she brought up a database. I could hear her typing, short bursts broken by the occasional click. “Can you spell the last name?”

“J-O-H-N-S-O-N. First name Amelia. A-M-E-L-I-A.”

“Date of birth?”

“August 22, 1999.”

“Alright,” she said. “Give me a moment to check.”

I leaned my elbow on the counter and rubbed the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes while I listened to the silence on the line. In the other room, the refrigerator kicked on, and a car passed outside with its headlights illuminating the street. It was almost five in the morning, and the city hadn’t quite decided to wake up yet.

“Nothing’s been filed under that name,” she said finally. “There’s no open case for Amelia Johnson at this time.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. “So no one’s reported her. Not even her father.” My stomach clenched as anxiety struck. Maybe Larry didn’t know she was missing either.

“Not yet. Would you like to initiate a report?”

The question sat there between us. I glanced down at the counter, then at the small stack of unopened mail beside the toaster, like the answer might be buried somewhere between bills and coupons. If I said yes, the wheels would start turning. They’d ask more questions, open an investigation, start contacting people.

Laurence would be the first call. Then maybe Godwin. And if Amelia had just decided to disappear for a few days—if she was exactly where I suspected she might be—then I’d have dragged her whole life into something official, and she’d never forgive me for it.

“I don’t think I’m ready to do that yet,” I said, my voice lower now. “She’s been gone a few days, but I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“Are you concerned for her safety?” the woman asked, her tone softening slightly now, like she knew I wasn’t calling because I had nothing better to do. I heard her fingers still clicking on the keyboard, but I hesitated.

I didn’t answer right away. I looked at the tile floor, then at the faint reflection of myself in the microwave door. “I don’t know,” I said. “She’s been … not herself. But maybe she’s just with her dad. I don’t want to jump the gun.”

“Understood,” she said. “If anything changes, call us back.”

I ended the call and set the phone down face-first on the counter, then stood there with my arms crossed over my chest. I didn’t sit—didn’t move. I just stood there, breathing slow and even, trying to convince myself that this wasn’t turning into something else. If she was with her dad, then at least she wasn’t alone. That was the only thing I had to hold onto, and I was holding it tightly.

I plugged my phone in as soon as I walked into the bedroom. The battery icon blinked red, clinging to 1 percent. I set it on the nightstand, screen down, and pulled the blankets back without bothering to undress. The room was dim, the curtains still open just enough to catch the first hints of daylight, but I didn’t get up to close them. Lying still felt like the only thing I could manage.

Sleep didn’t come. I wasn’t even close. I kept replaying the same useless thoughts, waiting for something to shift. The ceiling fan ticked softly every time the blades swung past the same spot. I stared at that point like the noise might line up with something, but it didn’t.

The phone vibrated once, then lit up. I turned toward it with my heart lurching in my chest, and for a second I didn’t move. The message came from a restricted number—no name, no contact, just text across the lock screen.

Restricted: 5:04 AM: The police can’t help you. If you want to see Amelia alive again, talk to Laurence.

I sat up slowly and picked it up, reading it again just to be sure I hadn’t imagined it. There was nothing else—no demand or instructions. Just a line that landed exactly where it was meant to.

The message was real, and whoever sent it knew exactly what they were doing.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed my keys from the dresser. There was no chance of sleep now. Not after a message like that and no way of knowing who sent it. I checked my phone again—still nothing. I tried Laurence one more time. It rang until it didn’t, then went to voicemail just like before. I ended the call without leaving a word.

Whoever sent that message wanted me unsettled. It worked. There was no reason to wait around for another cryptic threat to show up. If Laurence knew something—and I was starting to believe he did—then I was done guessing.

I slipped my shoes back on by the door and grabbed my jacket from the hook. The house was still dark as I locked up behind me, but the air outside felt different now.

I was going to his house.