Page 3 of Wasted

“Ginny?” Racquelle hurried toward the two women. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Victoria.”

Cillian’s chest clenched. “What about Victoria?” The question launched as quick as a reflex. Why was the girl scared and talking about Victoria?

“I was on the phone with her, and then there was a loud noise and shouting.” Ginny wrung her hands as words tumbled from her mouth. “And she told me to be sure to file the yellow folder. Then a guy yelled, and she hung up. Or got cut off.”

“You’re sure she said the yellow folder?” Racquelle’s dark eyebrows dipped as her forehead creased.

“Is that your code for somebody to check on her?” Cillian looked down at the shorter woman.

“No. That’s the purple folder. Yellow is the code to call the police.”

“Did you?” Cillian transferred his gaze to the nervous redhead.

She glanced at the administrator, confusion mingling with the shock that shaped her features.

“He’s our new social worker. Cillian Doherty. Did you call the police?”

Ginny swallowed visibly, strangling her hands. “I wasn’t sure what?—”

Cillian pointed at Racquelle. “Call 9-1-1 now.” He landed his gaze on Ginny as she started to back away. “Where is Victoria?”

“The Trents’ house…Um, 2401 Blackmore Lane. It’s on the West Side.”

Cillian had already swung away, breaking into a run to the exit. He wouldn’t need directions to that part of the city. Rough neighborhood. Not quite as bad as the one he’d grown up in, but enough to mean Victoria could be in serious danger.

Cillian reached his jeep and yanked the door open, jumping in behind the wheel and screeching out of the parking lot. He hadn’t come this far to have something stupid happen to her before he could even say hello.

At least she was close. With the shortcuts and ignoring the speed limit, he’d make it in five minutes.

He didn’t slow down until he reached Blackmore Lane. He checked every address, some on the houses and some on mailboxes.

There. 2401.

He glanced at the dashboard clock as he drove past the little one-story brown house. Four minutes, forty-three seconds. Not bad for not having driven these roads in sixteen years.

He pulled up to the curb beyond the house, far enough away that his jeep shouldn’t be spotted from inside. He got out, scanning the property.

A recent model gray Honda Civic was parked on the street off to the side of the driveway. Victoria’s? An uncomfortable pinch grabbed his chest.

The driveway held two cars. A dark blue nineties two-door Pontiac and less ancient Toyota Camry. But the Pontiac grabbed his attention. Because the driver’s door hung open.

Voices carried from the house. Shouts. A man and a woman.

The yelling woman wasn’t Victoria. But she was probably still in there.

Cillian walked toward the house, ears perked and head on a swivel.

The shouted words became clearer as he neared.

“I’ll see whoever I want!” The woman’s scream blew out the open front door.

“Yeah? I’m the last face you ever gonna see!” The man’s shout held enough hatred and anger to tense Cillian’s muscles as he slowed by the doorway. “The kid and then you!”

“No!” The terror in the woman’s shriek spiked adrenaline through Cillian.

“Hey!” He launched himself through the open doorway with the shout.