Page 6 of Still Missing You

He shrugs. “They weren’t impressed. I’m really worried about him.”

A dry chuckle escapes before I can stop myself. The irony is just too much for me to ignore. “Yeah, it kind of sucks when someone disappears and you’re left wondering if they’re alive or dead.”

Well, so much for being professional and treating him like any new client. Because I sure as shit wouldn’t have spoken to a client that way.

Dylan’s eyes widen, red creeps into his face, and he shifts in his seat like he doesn’t know what to do next. Finally, he grips both arms of the chair and pushes himself to his feet. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have come here. I’ll—”

“No,” I say quickly, waving him back into his chair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was a cheap shot.”

He smirks and sinks back into the chair. “You’re not wrong, though.”

“I have to ask you, why did you come to me with this?” The question has been burning in the back of my mind since I found him waiting in the lobby.

He opens his mouth to answer me, but hesitates, moistening his lips as if choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know any other private investigators.”

Well, that’s not flattering. However, I don’t know what I expected him to say. “You don’t know me. Not anymore.”

His throat jumps when he swallows. “I just thought you might take me seriously, that you would actually look for him.” He shrugs again. “I can pay you. I’m not looking for a freebie or a deal, or anything. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

I haven’t even thought about money at this point. I’m not even sure there’s a real case here, or if I’ll take it, and given what I just said, moving Dylan on would probably be for the best.

“I’m not sure how much help I can give you.” Dylan deflates in front of me, and for a minute, guilt burrows into my gut. I bristle. What the hell do I have to feel guilty about? Dylan has come out of the woodwork after ten years. The last time I saw him, he dumped my ass with no explanation. Now he shows up? And to help him find some other guy, who, let’s be real, he’s probably fucking. Why else would he care so much? Still, I squash down all my righteous indignation and try to be professional again. “I think there are a lot of reasons he might have left the way he did, and none of them mean he’s missing.”

“You agree with the police.”

Yeah, I do, but I don’t tell him that. “I can check into him, see if I can find evidence of where he is now. Do you have a copy of any of his identification?”

Dylan shakes his head, and I shoot him a ‘seriously?’ look. “He was your tenant.”

“I told you, we didn’t have a formal lease or anything. I was letting him stay there until he figured out his next move.”

“What about a Social Security number?”

The red already staining his cheekbones deepens. “I was paying him in cash.”

I lean back in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose. What the hell? He can’t be serious. I lean forward again, reach for my pen—then stop. Instead of writing, I point it at Dylan. “You had this man working for and living in a property you own, and you didn’t look into his background at all?”

“He was in trouble. I didn’t want to spook him. I wanted him to feel safe.”

It costs me everything not to roll my eyes. “You’re assuming a lot. You don’t know he’s a victim. Those bruises around his neck could have been defensive wounds; someone fighting him off.”

Dylan shakes his head. “That’s not who Matthew is.”

“You don’t know who Matthew is.” Dylan hadn’t known this guy for more than two months, and he had let him work in his café while living above it without taking even the most basic precautions to protect himself.

I think of the Dylan I knew ten years ago. He’d only been seventeen then, and I’d been eighteen. We’d both been precariously balanced between youth and adulthood, the future stretching before us like a gleaming golden road of possibility. We’d both been too naive to know that the gold was peeling away, and the road beneath was just dull concrete. The same future of compromise and have-to, just like everyone else’s, was all that waited for us.

Back then, Dylan had been guarded and cynical, and I’d been the trusting one, the one who believed the best of everyone. Somewhere over the last ten years, we swapped roles.

“Do you have a picture?”

“Yeah, but it’s not great.”

He slips his phone from his jeans’ pocket, scrolls, then turns the screen to me. The picture is a selfie of Dylan and a middle-aged woman with thick red hair. They’re both grinning, and while Dylan still looks the same, older, of course—don’t we all—but I’d never seen him look so light and content back when I’d known him.

In the background, a young man is watching the pair taking the photo with an amused, almost reluctant smile pulling at his mouth. He looks younger than twenty-three and a little like Dylan from back when I knew him. If they were sleeping together, this had to be the ultimate expression of narcissism I’d ever seen.

“That’s Hannah,” Dylan says. I don’t know why he feels like he has to explain. “She works for me. Her daughter, Kelley, used to rent the apartment over the café. She started university back in January. We were sending the picture to her. That’s Matthew in the background.”