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“Hang on.” I unlock Lacey’s door, dump my overnight bag on the floor, and grab some paper and pen. “Okay, what’s the message?”
“There’s an issue with shipment number DDa4, so if you can have one of them call me back ASAP, that’d be great. Let them know it’s delayed.”
When I hang up, I scribble a note for Lacey, letting her know I have to run errands and don’t know when I’ll be back. Then I lock up and leave.
The trip to Sugar Hill is faster, since this time I’m moving against the people coming into Manhattan for work.
The townhouse is locked up and dark. I turn off the alarm and walk inside. “Dad?”
No answer. The silence is deafening,
And there’s no note. Nothing to indicate where he might be.
I walk through the house. His bed hasn’t been slept in, but clothes spill from his normally neat closet, almost like he took off in a hurry.
Which is weird. The queasiness in my gut turns into hard concrete, and the unease begins to morph into dread. Dad wouldn’t take off without leaving me a message. And he certainly wouldn’t go without letting the foreman know, or making sure he could be reached.
Unless some emergency came up.
I know he has money in other businesses, investments, and his friends are spread across the country. What if he had to deal with something quickly and didn’t think he’d be gone long?
What if something bad has happened?
Shit. I don’t have any numbers of his friends or colleagues, and people don’t keep address books anymore. If something happened… I’d have gotten some kind of call, right?
“Don’t panic.”
But my words are vacuous, void of trust and faith.
I leave a note for my father as well as the message from the foreman. I’m on my way up to my room to grab some of my clothes when a ringing sound jolts me.
My phone’s on vibrate. I furrow my brow and look around.
I choke on a gasp when my eyes drop to his work phone on the floor.
The cold dread hits hard like a vicious punch.
I pick it up and answer. “Dad?”
“No, bitch. Not your fucking Daddy.”
My whole body vibrates with fear. An icy sensation snakes through, clutching my heart and squeezing.
I don’t recognize the voice. I don’t know who it is. It could be anyone because it sounds weird, distorted.
“Who is this?”
“I’m the man calling about Amelia. I figured your dad would answer. But you can take a message.”
“Leave her alone?—”
“Shut the fuck up, bitch. I have Amelia. If you want her back, come to 154 Ardman Way, Brooklyn. Warehouse five. Bring the bank account numbers. And the list.”
The list?
“Okay.”
“You have an hour, no police, or she dies.”
