Page 90 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

The door catches my attention almost immediately. Heavy. Solid. Steel. I press my ear against it. Nothing. No sound penetrates the steel at all. Slowly, I wrap my fingers around the handle and test it. Locked. I hadn’t expected anything else. Still, disappointment settles heavily in my stomach.

I crouch beside the hinges instead, studying them carefully. Whoever built this place installed the hinges on the outside, which means even if I somehow found a screwdriver—or a spoon, or a coin, or anything capable of removing the pins—it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. The entire thing has been designed to keep someone inside.

Me.

The realization sends another wave of fear through me. I force it back down and take a deep breath.

Think.

Just think.

I begin searching properly, this time with purpose. Every corner. Every shelf. Every crack in the walls. If there is anything useful in here—a loose nail, a broken piece of wood, an exposed screw, anything at all—I need to find it before he comes back.

An old metal shelving unit stands against one wall. Most of the shelves are empty apart from a few dusty cardboard boxes and a broken flowerpot. I lift each box one by one, ignoring the dust coating my hands, but they contain nothing except brittle newspapers and rusted gardening tools too blunt to be of any use.

The flowerpot is more promising. I deliberately let it slip from my fingers. It shatters against the concrete floor with a satisfying crack. For one hopeful second, I stare at the jagged shards scattered around my feet. Could it be used as a weapon? Something? Then reality catches up with me. The pieces are ceramic, not glass. Sharp enough to cut skin, perhaps, but far too brittle to do anything else. Still… I crouch and quietly slide the largest shard beneath the bottom shelf, hiding it from immediate view. It isn’t much, but it’s something, and right now, something feels infinitely better than nothing.

Chapter 29

Dash

Brielle returns a minute later, carrying a tray with two tall glasses of iced tea, tiny beads of condensation racing down the sides of the glasses before dripping onto the polished wood. Under any other circumstances, I would probably have appreciated the gesture. She is trying to help, trying to be a decent host, even though the last time members of my club came anywhere near her house, two of my brothers had turned up on her doorstep to threaten the man she lives with, convinced he was stalking the woman he used to call his wife.

Today, though, the tea barely registers. My attention keeps drifting back to the phone lying on the little table between us, its black screen seeming to mock me every time I glance at it. Every few seconds, I find myself checking it without meaning to, convinced I’ve felt it vibrate in my pocket or heard it ringing over the distant hum of traffic. Each time, I’m disappointed. Nothing. No one has found anything. The silence is becoming unbearable.

I’ve always been the one who keeps everybody smiling. When things get tense, I crack a joke. When the atmosphere gets too heavy, I do something stupid enough to make the others roll their eyes and laugh despite themselves. It is the role I’ve slipped into for so many years that I hardly think about it anymore. Today, I can’t think of a single joke, which unsettles me more than I care to admit.

Brielle lowers herself into the chair opposite me, wrapping both hands around her glass as though she needs something to steady herself.

“So…” Brielle says at last, breaking the silence. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“Anything.” The answer leaves my mouth before I have time to dress it up into something more useful. “I know that’s vague.”

She offers a small, understanding smile. “I suppose I’d be looking for anything too.”

I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, trying to organize the chaos in my head into something resembling a logical investigation. “I’m trying to work out whether we’ve missed somebody,” I admit. “Somebody who had a reason to become obsessed with Sadie. Somebody she crossed paths with without ever realizing how dangerous they were.”

Brielle frowns thoughtfully, her eyes drifting across the quiet street as she searches her memory. “I honestly can’t think of anyone.”

“What about at her work?”

She shakes her head.

“Neighbors?”

Another shake.

“What about after the divorce? Did Ethan ever mention anyone she dated, anybody she saw a few times? Anybody who didn’t take rejection particularly well?”

She sits quietly for several moments before answering, and I can almost see her mentally leafing through conversations she’d had with Ethan over the past couple of years. “Not that I’m aware of.”

I nod slowly, trying not to let my disappointment show. Every question I ask seems to close another door, and with every closed door, the picture becomes a little more frightening. Chief keeps sending updates every few minutes, each one more discouraging than the last—nothing at Sadie’s house, nothing at the hospitals, no sightings, and no witnesses. It is as though she has simply vanished into thin air.

I rub a hand across the back of my neck, feeling every sleepless night of the past few weeks settling into my shoulders. Think, Dash. You’re missing something. There has to be something. I start mentally replaying every conversation I’ve had with Sadie since she first stumbled into our lives by accident, every offhand comment that had seemed insignificant at the time.

I’m halfway through thanking Brielle for her time when another memory nudges quietly at the edge of my thoughts—the man from the gym. The man Sadie thought she’d been texting before she accidentally messaged us instead. It probably isn’t relevant. Sadie certainly never said he made her feel uncomfortable or unsafe, but I remember Chief telling me that he’d been sniffing around her at the nightclub. I brushed it off as Chief being territorial but at this point, though, I’m running dangerously short of better ideas.

“One last question.”