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I stare at the phone fuckingwillingLouisa to call back as I press the unlock button on my truck for Beau, and not ten seconds later he climbs in. I don’t even look at him, because my eyes are still locked on Seraphine’s phone screen—the background is a photo of her and her so-called friends. She’s got no other notifications outside of the missed call from Louisa.

“Maybe if you stareharderat Seraphine’s phone, it’ll actually open.”

I finally look up at Beau, freshly shaved, bright hazel eyes studying mine. There’s no small amount of pity in them.

“You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

“You’re on Instagram, right?”

“Yes, sir. Who we lookin’ for?”

“Go to Sera’s account, and look through the people she follows for someone named either Louisa or Louis.”

Beau’s dark brows jump, but he doesn’t say anything; he just opens Instagram and does as I’ve requested.

A moment later, Seraphine’s phone rings again, and lucky-fucking-me, it’sLouisa.

“Hello?”

Beau holds up his phone screen, showing me the face of some guy dressed in a fucking polo shirt, khaki shorts, and sailboat slippers, or whatever the fuck you call those things.

Louisa has an awfully deep voice.

“Who is this?"

“Bitch, you called me.”

Click.

Oh-hell-fucking-no.

I take Beau’s phone, swiping through image after image of some guy who’s dressed and posing like he’s in a fucking L.L. Bean catalogue or some shit. I’m scrolling through photos, none of which have Seraphine in them, but something in my gut justfuckingknows.About twenty photos later, my intuition pricks when I come across a carousel of photos from what looks like a Christmas party.

My heart thunders so loudly it echoes in my ears when I see her. There are several other people in the photo—all laughing with drinks in their hands, and this motherfucker has Seraphine in his lap with his arm draped around her hip, hand laid on her thigh and ass like she fucking belongs to him. They’re mid-laugh like they’re having the time of their lives. Seeing it feels like my fucking heart’s just been cut in two. I look at the date and my fucking jaw drops.

Christmas Eve.

Two fucking years ago.

I remember that night.

Like so many other nights, we’d gotten into an argument and she’d left. She told me she was going to stay at her parents’ for Christmas. And while there are several people in that picture, not one of them is a family member.

Beau must see my reaction because he leans over, murmuring an, “Aw, shit.”

Louisdoesn’t have a last name or any links shared, but unfortunately for him, all I need is his face.

When I come across a clear portrait-style photo, I screenshot it and use Beau’s browser to do an image search of his face.

Money.

There’s dozens of images of Louis Pembroke III attending everything from the fucking Kentucky Derby to night club openings and even philanthropic events.

Two seconds later, I’m clicking on a veryprofessionalheadshot photo of him at the corporate attorney’s office, Ashford & Pembroke, where apparently he’s a partner.

I hear Beau sigh next to me as he reclines his seat and yawns, patiently waiting. In another handful of seconds, I’ve found hishome address on the Virginia Secretary of State website by searching for his LLC’s name.