Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

I type SIU and logo with pistols into the search field of the browser. The logo with the crossed pistols comes up. I click on the link. The logo is new. It has been designed during a reform in the South African Police Service three years ago and belongs to an elite team within the Special Task Force. The Special Investigations Unit has eighteen members country-wide. I type cufflink in the search bar and suck in a quiet breath when a special recognition page link appears.

Shooting a glance over my shoulder at Garai who watches quietly, I open the page. Only three pairs of cufflinks have been awarded to detectives for outstanding achievement. I click on their names. A page with accolades and photographs opens. The first is a stocky man of short build who’s retired. The second is a thin, lanky man who’s been transferred to the forensics department. The third is Detective Jim Wolfe.

My fingers tremble on the keyboard. I don’t enlarge the picture, worried that Garai will tell Ian about my search. I definitely don’t want him to mention Wolfe’s name. Instead, I close all the windows and delete my browser history.

“What’s this all about?” Garai asks, swiping a hand toward the screen.

“I was just curious about something.” When his frown deepens, I say, “Something I read.” I grab the key for the Jeep from the desk. “Thanks for your help.”

His troubled gaze follows me to the photo copier in the corner.

“You don’t mind, do you?” I say as I position the crumpled photo of the men who killed Nick and press the button to make a copy, taking care to block the feed tray with my body.

“Of course not. What’s Ian’s is yours. This is your home now. You know that, right?”

I grab the original and copy and fold both before turning back to him. “Um, yes.”

“You’re wanted here, Cas. You’re needed and loved.” He stresses loved. “I want to make sure you understand that.”

I wipe a strand of hair behind my ear. “I do. Thank you.”

“Ian hasn’t loved anyone, at least not a woman. Leon, yes, but you’re different.”

Uncomfortably, I say, “Okay.”

He eyes the key in my hand as I move to the door. “You’re not going to risk everything by doing something foolish, are you?”

“I’m not going to run away. I promise. I’m going to town for supplies. Shona wasn’t here to take care of stocking the kitchen, and I don’t want her to have to worry about the empty shelves when she gets back. I’ll be home soon. If Ian gets back before me, tell him I won’t be long.”

“All right,” he says, still giving me the same, uncertain look, but he doesn’t stop me, not since Ian is letting me drive around alone and armed, and especially not since what happened with Banga.

I hop into the Jeep and head toward the gates. A distance away, I pull off on the side of the road and scan the area for animals. When I see nothing, I get out. To be sure, I check the ground for footprints. There are elephant prints in the dust, but they’re old. They’ve passed by at least a week ago. I’m a good tracker. My dad taught me how to read spoor.

Certain there’s no danger, I grab the rifle from the back and trudge a short distance into the veld. Red Mahogany trees line the road. It doesn’t take long to find one with a hollow in the trunk. It’s not a nest made by a woodpecker or a squirrel. It’s a natural deformity.

After checking that the wood isn’t infested with termites or ants, I look for something in my bag in which I can seal the printout, and decide on the plastic packet of my tissues. I throw out the tissues, put the printout inside the packet, and roll it up carefully. I place the packet in the hollow and find a rock that fits in the hole to prevent the packet from blowing away or dropping out.

It’s not the most secure hiding place, but it’s the best I can do. I check my watch. I have twenty minutes left. The sight of the Rolex momentarily jars me, but I shake off the sentimentality, get back into the Jeep, and continue toward the gates.

Thankfully, the guards don’t stop me. I drive through with a wave and step on the gas when I hit the tar road.

My heart beats in my throat when I turn into town. A minivan follows not far behind me. It’s been on my tail for the last ten minutes, but there are many lodges and B&Bs scattered along the river on only one road. It could just be someone from one of the other tourist accommodations.

The van follows me into the Elephant Hills parking lot. I cut the engine and wait. The man who gets out of the van wears a safari suit and Grasshopper shoes. Whistling, he strolls past the Jeep without as much as a glance in my direction.