Page 39 of His Atonement

Rage.

Deep concern for Frankie's well-being.

I want to find the bastard responsible for those cuts, those multiple slices to her perfect flesh and destroy them for laying a finger on what is mine.

Mine.

Once again the word echoes through my head, bounces around inside my skull with a level of rightness that should be alarming, but I have no time to analyze it.

No, I have no time for anything but finding Frankie to make sure she is alright, then force her to tell me who hurt her before I set out to rip them to shreds.

Once that photo is secured with the other, I quickly dress and roll another blunt, tuck it behind my ear, and take off through the tunnel yet again.

Perhaps that is the entire reason Frankie disappeared.

Perhaps some unknown intruder broke into her cabin and held her hostage, did unspeakable things to her, hurt her while she was unable to reach out for help, while she was unable to call for assistance.

My steps become quicker and when I finally reach the garage of Havok's cabin, I stop.

If that were the case, if she was in fact held prisoner by some sick and twisted being that tortured her, how was she able to take that photo?

How was she able to sneak into my home and leave it for me to find?

I scowl as I push through the door and start toward Frankie's cabin.

If she was able to do those things, take the photo, sneak in and leave it for me, then that leaves but one conclusion, and that both angers me and drives my concern into new territory because my gut, my senses that are far more in tune with Frankie than I'd like to admit, are telling me I might be onto something.

The she-devil injuredherselfand regardless of the how or why, I do not like that one fucking bit.

Frankie is in for a very severe punishment when I get there and I doubt she has any clue what's coming.

Her cabin is dimly lit when it comes into view, the porch light on in anticipation of the night that falls quickly, the lamp in her living room lit as well, but I can immediately tell she is either in the back of the small cottage or gone from it because her scent, that intoxicatingly delicious scent, is faint.

Which is why I don't give her the courtesy of knocking, do not wait for permission to enter, I just throw open the unlocked front door and stomp into the house ready for a fight.

A fight that will be postponed until I find her because she is, in fact, not home.

Confusion swirls with my anger as I look around, and little seeds of doubt take root again.

The small bookshelf is in pieces on the floor, and looks as though it was hastily hacked apart by the ax that is stuck in the lumpy cushions of the couch. A simple foot or two away from the bookshelf carnage is a mess of broken glass and black plastic, glints of silver and color along the wreckage, and as I step closer I can make out a few letters among it.

AC, anO,and aN.

And if I remember correctly from following her around to share my stench the other day, Frankie uses a Canon camera for her photography.

None of this makes sense.

The cuts on her thigh, the destroyed bookshelf and camera lens, the couch that surely would have met the same end if its attacker had not stopped abruptly.

I do not understand.

Walking further into her home, I round the island and have no remorse for looking at her open laptop or searching the notebook next to it because I am too pissed to care and too confused and concerned to not investigate.

I tap the mouse pad to wake up the screen and see some sort of software is open, an image of Frankie in an enlarged frame, one where she is very clearly laying in her bed, perfect mouth forming silent words. I slide my finger over the pad again, hover the cursor over the software—Final Cut Pro X—but that means very little to me since I only possess so much knowledge of technology, none of which touches photos or videos.

If it didn't once again appear that Frankie abandoned this mid-project, I'd hit play and try to find out what she was doing before she disappeared, but for some stupid reason my snooping in her laptop stops there.

Instead, I turn to the notebook, flip through the first few pages in search of answers.