“Dark hair. Covered in tats. Kind of rocker looking. Nothing special, but I guess some girls find him appealing,” Bruce said sullenly.
“Are you expecting there to be a party tonight?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Can’t really say.”
“When you get the information, I’m going to need you to give us a call. Here.” He held out a business card to Bryce, who studied it while Travis continued. “Maybe you can point out to us this kid you saw Darcy with. We’d really like to speak with him, see if he can give us any ideas where we can find her.”
Bryce’s leg jiggled nervously as he stared at the floor. “So…you think Darcy—that she’s okay? I mean, I haven’t heard from her, but I didn’t call her, either. I was kind of still upset.”
“That’s what we’re hoping for,” Travis said. He wasn’t about to share his real thoughts. Because Darcy definitely didn’t sound okay. More like drugged. And the purpose wasn’t too hard to guess. “But in the meantime, if you think of anything that might be useful—or when you get that next text—give me a call.”
Travis turned and motioned Meredith toward the door.
She ignored him, however, and stood staring at Bryce for a long minute. Bryce had the grace to look sheepish under her trademark glare, something Travis had seen before and knew its effect. He could imagine those deep brown eyes almost scorching the poor kid with their intensity, her disapproval clear. He had to admit, from this side of the scorch, it was impressive.
Satisfied, finally, she turned and marched past Travis and outside.
Had to hand it to her—she still had it.
Minutes later, they sat in the car, neither speaking at first.
“So, what’s the plan?” she asked. “Do you still want to go talk to Darcy’s best friend?”
“Let’s go check out the address for last night’s party. I’d like to see if Darcy’s car is still there.”
If it wasn’t there, it added to the possibility she’d taken off somewhere. If it was there…then that didn’t bode as well.
The radio was playing the Clash when he pulled away. From the disgruntled looks she threw his way, he took it she wasn’t a fan. “What? You don’t like British punk rock?”
“Does anyone under forty? I mean, it was way before our time.”
“And?”
“I just think you’re trying too hard. Like you want to be all John Cusack from Grosse Pointe Blank or something.”
He didn’t bother to respond. Especially since it was one of his favorite films. Instead he signaled and hung a right to get on the freeway. “So tell me, Meredith, what have you done for the past ten years to keep yourself busy—aside from collecting husbands like you once collected boyfriends.”
She su
cked in her breath. “How the hell do you know anything about my marriages?”
“I like to know everything I can about potential clients.” Plus, once he found out it was Meredith, he’d been too tempted not to see what she’d been up to. Three husbands before she turned thirty? He didn’t know why he’d even been surprised. Poor bastards. “You know”—he scratched his head—“I would have thought with your daddy’s money you wouldn’t have needed to marry to get more.”
She remained silent for a moment, turning her attention to outside the window. When she finally spoke, her voice was void of emotion. “You don’t really think we’re going to play this game of catch-up, do you?”
“As I see it, we have about ten minutes to reach our destination. Have to fill the time somehow. You don’t like my music, so conversation seems to be the next logical action.”
“Okay. Then tell me about yourself, Travis. It seems that Allie thought pretty highly of your intellect in high school. If you were so smart, why didn’t you go into business or computer science? Join the CIA or FBI or something. Hell, maybe become the next Bill Gates. But the military? Seems like a waste of your talents.”
“Well, Mer,” he said, using the same inflection as she’d used for his name, “for those of us without a hefty trust fund, education wasn’t as accessible.”
“Surely there were scholarships.”
“College didn’t interest me. Not back then. I’d wanted to get out and see something of the world. Kick a little ass in the process.” Well, that was what the other men—kids, really—had said when they all left for their first tour in Iraq. Before they saw the guy next to them blown into a hundred pieces—or suffered the same fate themselves. His reasons had been more personal.
“That was”—she looked over at him, and he waited for a snide comment from those perfect lips—“courageous.”
He nearly ran them off the road.