The Dirty Truth

“Hi, Connie. Thanks so much for calling; that would be amazing,” I say, tempering my excitement so as not to scare her away. “My schedule is pretty free at the moment—what works for you?”

“How about nine a.m. this Friday?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll send the calendar invite as soon as we hang up. Looking forward to meeting you!” Connie hangs up, and within seconds, an iCal invite pings my inbox. My mother would adore this woman.

I float home on a hopeful breeze—my stomach prickled with butterflies as I climb the stairs to my apartment, ready to proudly inform Indie that I’ve already landed a job interview—until my phone rings with a call from West, and all the giddy energy is sucked from the stuffy stairwell.

“Hey,” I answer, holding my breath.

“When you sent my niece off to some random person’s house, did you happen to get a last name or an address?” His words are curt and his tone is punishing.

“First of all, I didn’t send her anywhere. She was invited. I told her to ask you, but you didn’t answer when she called.” I straighten my shoulders. “Second of all, I’m not her nanny. I can’t tell her what she can and can’t do; I can only help her make the right choices.”

I imagine if I’d told her no, it would’ve tarnished all the trust we’ve built up so far, and she would’ve wasted no time placing me in the same category as her “control freak” uncle.

“Either way,” he says, “she’s not answering my calls or texts, and her phone is off, so I can’t track her.”

I take a seat on the steps, massaging the tightness from my temples. I thought I was getting through to her, that she understood she had to walk a fine line if we had any chance at all of making this Nebraska thing happen.

“West,” I exhale. “I’m so sorry. When I left, they were on Lexington. That’s all I know.”

The silence between us is deafening as the heaviness of his anger radiates through the phone.

“I’ll help you find her,” I add. “Give me twenty, and I’ll meet you at your place.”

“Don’t bother,” he says. “I’m picking you up in five.”

West ends the call, and I make a vain attempt to call Scarlett before heading downstairs to wait. Four minutes later, a black town car pulls up in front of my building, and a uniformed driver steps out to get the passenger door.

“Well?” West asks, his aqua gaze slicing into me. Everything around him is dark, from the onyx leather accoutrements of the interior to the jet-black suit that hardly contains his muscled physique. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you getting in?”

He checks his watch—a black stainless steel band accented with a black diamond-encrusted bezel.

For a moment, I’m taken back to that day in the boardroom last week, when he made me feel like a speck of dust in his universe—and I allowed it.

“I think we’d get more traction if we split up.” I remain planted on the sidewalk.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll walk the Lexington area,” I say. “And I’ll let you know if I see her.”

“It’ll take you twenty minutes just to get there.” West scoffs at my suggestion. “Just get in. It’ll be quicker.”

“No.” As a habitual people pleaser and lifelong yes-woman, the word is foreign on my tongue but satisfying nonetheless. “I’ll let you know if I find her.”

I leave him with a polite yet firm wave before heading north, but I barely make it to the corner before the soft scuff of leather dress shoes on pavement follows. Turning, I find my former boss barreling after me, a man on a mission.

The crosswalk flashes white, and the small crowd around me dashes off, but my legs turn to lead.

“I don’t understand the obstinance,” he says, jaw pulsing as he towers over me. “Get in the damn car, Elle, so you can help me find my niece.”

“I’m not getting in your car.” I fold my arms to hide the fact that I’m trembling. “I’ll look for your niece, but not with you. Not when you’re acting like a certifiable psychopath.”

His perfect nostrils flare and his lips arch into the sneer of a man not used to disobedience or insubordination. I imagine if a person is used to always getting their way, it’d be infuriating to deal with pushback. But I stopped catering to his whims a week ago, and I’ll be damned if it was all for nothing.

The crosswalk flashes to white again.

“I’ll let you know if I find her,” I say before leaving him to seethe on the corner of Sixty-Eighth and York.

It’s dark by the time I get home three hours later, and my legs are aching for respite.

Still no Scarlett.

And no word from West other than periodic texts informing me she’s yet to be found.