Page 45 of Detective for the Debutante (SAFE Haven Security #3)
MURPHY
T he drive to Leigh’s is almost as familiar as the drive to my place.
She was the first person I wanted to talk to when Overton shared what IA had found. But I fought the sensation, heading to Mom’s instead.
Yet here I am, nearly breaking the speed limit to get to her. To apologize. To beg for forgiveness. Exactly as my mother told me to do.
She may hate me.
I should probably just turn around.
But I can’t.
I need to see her.
But I just pull into her driveway when her across the street neighbor calls out from the driver’s side of his Jeep.
“She’s not home. I saw her pull out about fifteen minutes ago,” he calls out.
Suspicion has me narrowing my eyes as I study him. Who the hell is he to her and why does he know that?
“Who are you?”
“We met before. When you were looking into all that shit with Hannah Grace and Cole,” he says.
As I scrutinize him, he does look familiar, and the tension eases somewhat, but doesn’t disappear.
“I promised Cole and Hannah Grace I’d keep an eye on her this summer,” he adds.
The tension fades as the memory of Cole mentioning him to me surfaces.
“Any idea where she was going?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“I just happened to see her since I was mowing my yard before work.” He points to the front yard with the diagonal lines of a fresh mow.
“Thanks, man, appreciate it,” I tell him.
With a wave, he gets in his Jeep and drives off, leaving me alone.
I sit on the front stoop, considering my options. I could wait for her.
It’s only seven twenty and I have no idea where she’s gone.
Pulling up my text thread with her, I key out a text and press send.
I’m sorry.
I’m here at your place and would love to apologize in person.
The message shows as delivered but unread.
“You brought this on yourself, O’Connell,” I murmur, willing the Delivered to turn to Read .
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
Nothing.
“Fuck.”
Standing, I’m almost to my car when it rings.
But it’s not Leigh. It’s another number.
One showing as Unknown.
Spam call.
I let it go to voicemail and get in my car, cranking the engine and letting the AC blow through the car.
The phone rings again, still with unknown as the caller ID.
“Hello?” I answer, bracing myself for some telemarketer or robotic recording.
Only it’s not.
“Murphy?” the voice asks.
“This is Murphy. Who is this?” I ask, being careful not to answer yes since I had just read about a scam where criminals were using AI to use the word yes for access to a variety of things.
“It’s Sydney. I’m not some AI bot who’s going to steal your identity. Jesus Christ. Is Leigh with you?”
“No, I’m at her place. But she’s not home.”
“Fuck. That’s what I was afraid of.”
Warning bells clamor in my head. Fear and anxiety claw through my gut at the tone of Sydney’s voice.
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Leigh texted me a few minutes ago about a show we both like, but she changed the detail. It’s a code phrase for when one of us is on a bad date and needs intervention. Usually it involves calling with an emergency or something like that.”
“Leigh’s on a date?” I ask.
Shit. Did I already miss my window to apologize?
In a week?
No, Leigh’s not like that.
I’m letting fear control my thoughts and take several deep breaths, unsure what I’m more afraid of—Leigh leaving me or something happening to her.
“No. I said it’s our code phrase for dates. She’s still pining after your dumb ass.”
That’s twice in the span of two hours I’ve been called the same name.
“I—”
“I don’t have time to argue with you. I think something is wrong. Otherwise she wouldn’t have texted me that. I tracked her phone and it pinged to a place called Centennial Park. Do you know where it is?”
“Yeah, it’s about thirty minutes from here. Maybe forty-five depending on traffic.”
Maybe she had gone to take pictures—she had mentioned wanting to go back after her first visit there. We were supposed to go together and I was going to show her my favorite parts of the park.
But why would she text Sydney that code?
I’m already backing out of the driveway, keeping to the speed limit in the neighborhood until I’m on main streets where I speed up. The phone connects to the car via my speakers.
My heart starts to hammer against my chest, my gut agreeing with Sydney. Something is wrong.
And I need to get there. Now.
“The last ping is in a parking lot. It looks like a pretty big parking lot but it doesn’t have any identification on it.”
“Shit. There are a handful of parking lots around Centennial Park,” I tell her, stomping on the accelerator.
My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as the car shoots forward, through a stale yellow. The sound of horns and squealing tires echo behind me but I don’t look back.
I can’t.
Leigh needs me. Everything in my body is telling me so.