Page 44 of Never To Suffer (The Hollywoodland #4)

“I used to chill with him, and I knew his girlfriend. She’s tight with Steve, so I haven’t seen either of them since that whole break up mess where I drove the car through the front window of Steve’s gym. He dated Steve for a bit. Maybe they only fucked. I dunno.”

“Steve?”

“My ex? Steve Jensen. Owns that big ass gym in the valley.” My brain isn’t making connections like it should right now, giving her nothing but a blank stare.

“For shit’s sake, doc. Go home. Steve and Chase Cooper are besties.

Steve married the hockey player, bro, the cute one.

Well, they’re kind of all cute. I prefer the goalie.

I should have banged him at that Halloween party instead of?—”

“Kennedy!”

“Sorry! I’ve had way too much caffeine.”

“Fine. Just focus for two minutes. Xander might be in trouble. Do you know how I can get a hold of anyone close to him? Are he and Chase close?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. He spends most of his time with Dani. How do you know him?”

“Danny?”

“Yeah, Dani Silva,” she says, like I should know who the hell she’s talking about.

“Can you get me Danny’s number, please?”

“Sure, hang on.”

Some days I’m trapped in an old Abbott and Costello sketch comedy about baseball when I talk to Kennedy. She’s a bright kid when she wants to be, but that’s her biggest problem. She doesn’t want to be.

While I wait, I call the US Consulate again and the police. Neither of them knows anything about Alexander Maxwell, but they gave me the number to the Maxwell Corporation’s Tokyo office, which I have, and called three times now. They keep blowing me off.

“Here you go. Dani and Xander are, like, always together.” She pops her gum as I continue to stare at her. “Can I go get lunch now?”

“Yeah. In fact, you’re free for the day. I’ll pay you for the whole day, but you can cut out now. Leave the front door unlocked in case a patient comes by.”

“Sweet, sure. Good luck finding Xander, he’s a tricky bitch to pin down.” She heads out the door, adding, “Call me if you can’t reach Dani. I’ll check with my ex, the dickhead.”

She calls all her ex’s dickheads, so that narrows nothing down. I need to figure out who this Danny guy is. I should have asked him more about his girlfriend, because just Beetle won’t help me at all.

I continue to read about Xander, or Alex, as he’s called in most articles.

As I’m digging around, the front door opens, and the familiar sound of a vacuum cleaner fills the hallway.

The cleaners mean it’s well after six and I’ve fallen deep down the internet rabbit hole.

I hurry to pack up my things, nod to the crew who smile and wave, and head home where I can continue this expedition.

The entire ride home, I’m replaying everything that happened between us in my head.

The furniture delivery, flight to Japan, business trip—all that makes more sense now than it did before, even though I didn’t question it.

The sleeping bag, cardboard boxes, and the thrift store couch?

None of that makes any sense at all. I nailed the detail about the boarding school, though.

Who the hell is Danny?

When I get home, the counters still have stacks of cooking supplies on them from this morning. I never got around to cooking a damn thing, getting lost in my head. I leave it for now and set up my laptop after I feed Baguette and grab a bottle of wine. And a second, just in case.

My phone rings when I’m almost on the couch, so I dump both bottles on the cushions and pray they don’t slam together and break. Running across the room, I grab my satchel, digging my phone out in such a hurry that I don’t look at the caller ID before I answer.

“Xander?” I yell, panting and hopeful. There’s no response, and when I pull the phone away, I notice it’s a text.

Maurice: Your daughter is in a cult. Call Marie.

I stare at the message on my phone, not quite sure how to react to news like that.

Maurice is my father-in-law. He took in Sylvie when she decided to stay behind in France while I moved on and began a new life here in Los Angeles.

Like Sylvie, I don’t talk to Maurice much.

He blames me for the death of his daughter and claims I took her down a road of debauchery, ruining her.

He’s a bitter old man, but he’s been there for Sylvie when I wasn’t.

Your daughter is in a cult. What the hell does he mean by a cult? Why did this have to happen now?!

As a therapist, I’ve coached people through escaping cults or dealing with their children or close family joining cults, but I never imagined I’d have to walk that path myself. I pull up my sister-in-law’s number, pop in my earbuds, and press the call button as I head back to my computer.

“Hey Theo! How’s your new man?”

“Hi Marie. Uhm, later?” My voice cracks, but I’m hoping she didn’t notice. “Have you talked with your father lately? Or Sylvie?”

“No, not in a few days. I had business in Chicago and only got back to New York this morning, though, so what have I missed?”

I open a new tab on the browser and type my own daughter’s name this time. “Maurice sent me a message. It said, and I quote, ‘Your daughter is in a cult. Call Marie.’ Nothing more.”

“Shit. She’s not in a cult. Papa doesn’t like her new boyfriend, Luca.

He’s sweet! Young, attractive Italian boy, always talking about yoga, meditation, and those new age religious beliefs.

But it’s France, and he’s Italian.” She tells me what little she knows about him, more than I knew before.

He’s a musician, like Sylvie. She met Luca at university and they hit it off.

Apparently, they’ve been dating for two years.

“Okay, well, if you happen to hear from her, can you let me know?”

“I will. Papa probably told her she can’t see Luca anymore and when she fought back, he decided to take a leap off the deep end. You know how he can get. Are you still coming next week?”

“Maybe? Things here are—complicated. I don’t want to bring my drama into her life when she already has enough of her own, by the sounds of it.” I struggle to not add again to the end of that statement.

“Theo!” Marie catches me before I hang up. “She’s a good kid. Try to be here, okay? Let me know.”

“If she wants me there, I’ll drop everything. I promise.”

I end the call and stare at the phone, the computer, and the supplies in the kitchen.

I don’t want to bake; I want a drink and to get the hell out of the house.

Everything in here reminds me of my dead partners, my daughter, or the man I’m falling for who might be in trouble a world away.

No one will tell me anything, no one will even admit he’s in Tokyo, missing, or even exists.

I grab my keys and go somewhere to clear my mind.