Chapter 19

ASHER

I won’t lie, I go home and smoke a lot of weed. My stress is through the roof, and I need something to help me relax. I find myself on the balcony, finishing one joint and immediately lighting up the next.

“What’s the deal with this girl? Why do I feel this overwhelming need to rescue her?”

The only person that comes to mind is Mama. She needed saving too, from my fathers, it seems.

“Is that what this is about? Am I trying to be like them? Is that what it will take for them to see that I’m just as good as my sisters or brother?”

Probably not. I’ve always been the family jester, the only one not out there making something of myself.

Even Tilly, who they always thought would crash and burn, is doing well for herself and little Isaac. I wish I could be like them, knowing where my life is going.

Maybe like Ella, with her ten-step life plan. Or like Tilly, who works her ass off and comes out on top—even when she thinks she won’t.

Or maybe like Tal, the smartest of us all and the one most likely to exceed our parents’ expectations.

Then there’s Atty. He’s good at everything, my better half, as I’ve always joked.

He’s been learning the family business since high school, one piece at a time. He’s competent and eager, and I think that’s because he finally feels like he fits in.

The king of his own castle, standing atop the fortress he’s built to keep out those who wish him harm. I should be like my brother; I should be enjoying life with the person God intended for me.

But here I am, alone, having only bumped into him by chance because we happen to be in the same place at the same time. The weed does its job. I’m calm enough to go back to square one.

“So what if Maddison doesn’t want my help? There are plenty more like her. A whole damn file full of profiles of missing kids from all over our country. I don’t have to fixate on someone who doesn’t want my help.”

But I can’t help it. As I sit at my desk, printing out every picture from all the profiles, I keep coming back to hers.

And instead of just glancing at it, I read everything I have on her. Maddison Fairweather. Nineteen. Missing for three whole months as of the twentieth.

Described as having long brown hair, five feet seven, with bright blue eyes and a contagious smile. I can’t say I’ve seen her smile, so I can’t confirm that, but the other three details check out.

Her parents are wealthy, owning a large farming business down south. They breed cattle and horses, among other things. She has a great life, it seems.

Private school, trust fund, friends, family. A career in broodmares, whatever that means. And then, out of the blue, she disappears.

She leaves her family, friends, and boyfriend. There has to be something missing from this information. There has to be a mistake, right?

I shake my head, moving her profile to the bottom of the pile. She doesn’t want your help, man; respect that.

I guess I have no choice. I have to forget about the girl and move on to the next. It just sucks because she falls into my lap so easily.

My thoughts drift to the person who started all of this, Miss Diaz, and I feel guilty for not updating her yet.

So I send a quick message saying I’ve had one lead, things are slow, but I’ll follow up and get in touch as soon as I can. That’s a bit of a lie, of course, but it’s better to hear some news than no news, right?

My plan now is to stake out the club and watch who comes and goes. Once I get some sleep—a quick nap on the couch—and I feel a little less high, I drive back to the club in the Range Rover.

A different car, one with tinted windows. Not the same one I’ve used before. Another tip Callum taught me.

And speaking of things my parents taught me, I stop to pick up a notepad and pens on the way over. I have both my pen and notebook in my lap, ready to jot down anything noteworthy whenever someone enters or exits the building.

I quickly scribble down a brief description of each person, something I can refer back to later. These notes are my evidence, my memory aids. It’s a trick I picked up from Tyler.

Only women come in, and a single man leaves. The same man from last night, the one who took Maddison away.

So, the women. There are four of them, but none of them is Maddison.

One is a tall, skinny blonde. A baseball cap hides her face from my view. Then there’s a pair of average-height girls.

I can’t see their faces or hair because they’re wearing hoodies with the hoods up, but their heels give away their gender. The last girl is short and blonde.

She looks so young, about the same age as Tal. It breaks my heart to see her walk into that place willingly. She seems too young to be working there.

But the truth is, all these girls are here by choice. They each walk into the club of their own free will.

I hate that fact. It’s hard to argue against it.

There’s no man forcing them inside, no struggle, no screams for help. They just walk down the street and enter the club.

But at least now I have descriptions. I can compare these with other information I have and see if any profiles match.

Maddison shows up too, arriving just before seven in the evening—two hours before the club opens. I stay for hours, watching, and I return on Tuesday to do the same.

I repeat the process, getting descriptions of two more girls to cross-reference with the others. Both of these girls are older, but they share similarities with the first four.

This tells me that the club’s clientele prefers a certain type of girl—young, fit, mostly blonde.

And all six girls have characteristics that match at least one or more of the missing girls. So I can’t single out any one girl as a match.

Not like Maddison. But for now, this is all I have. Until I can come up with another plan.