34. Blaise

The police arrive minutes after Cole’s dad kidnaps him, but it is too late. They’re gone. A blonde female officer leads me out of the room to ask me countless questions while my head spins with possibilities. What if he hurts him? He already has. Cole has been shot. There was blood. Lots of blood. Where is he taking him? What is he planning?

Fuck…the unhinged look in his eyes—a man who’d lost everything and finally snapped. Cole’s dad is dangerous.

A paramedic tries to check me over, but I send her away with a hard glare.

“Did you find his mom?” I ask the police officer, interrupting her mid-question.

Her brows draw close together. “They’re trying to get hold of her now.”

“Fuck!” I tear at my hair and pace on the spot—two seconds away from driving my fist into the cement wall. My knuckles would take one hell of a beating, but the pain would be worth it. This restless energy coursing through me demands me to do something. I can’t stand around while they inspect Mia’s room as though they’ll find any clues in there. They won’t. Only a cum-covered bed and our blood.

It’s also pointless to phone Cole’s mom. She won’t pick up. He took her—I know it in my gut.

They finally decide they’re done questioning me and arrange for another police officer to drive me home. The streets pass by in a blur. Everything is a muted blur.

The moment I shut the front door, smearing the chrome handle with blood, Dad pops his head out of the kitchen. “The trip got canceled—” His eyes widen, and he enters the hallway. “What happened?”

I stand there, seeing but unseeing as the fight leaves me. I don’t know when Dad crosses the hall, when he palms my cheeks to inspect my injuries, or when he pulls me into his embrace.

His arms constrict around me. It feels weird. Unlike Tiago’s mom, I can’t recall the last time he hugged me. Even when I was little, the extent of his affection was a pat on the shoulder or a ruffle of my hair. I was so happy on the rare occasions when he mussed up the short strands and told me that I’d been a good boy.

Dad means well, but he’s cold.

“Did Cole do this?” he growls, and my thoughts crash to a halt.

His Boa-arms squeeze tighter, or maybe it’s my imagination. I can’t breathe. I’m slowly suffocating to death. Crushed, like a tin can.

My muscles object as I untangle myself. I was too high on adrenaline earlier to feel the extent of my injuries, but now it hurts to move. “Why are you so quick to blame Cole for everything?”

Dad opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off, “Do you even know where your wife is? Do you care?”

He frowns as I shoulder past him.

I can’t stand still. I need to move. I need to act.

Where would Cole’s dad take them? Back to their old house? No, it would be the first place the authorities check. He knows that—he’s unhinged, sure, but he’s not stupid.

Dad pulls me to a stop just as I’m about to escape upstairs. My foot barely touches the first step when his long fingers curl around my shoulder, and I look down. I’m still wearing my shoes, but the laces are undone.

“What happened, Blaise?”

I don’t get to tell him. There’s a knock on the door.

Dad sighs before the weight of his hand disappears, and he crosses the hall to open the door.

The same female officer who questioned me at Mia’s dorm introduces herself to my dad. They walk past me and enter the living room.

Their voices drift through the thin walls. Another officer shuts the front door, his eyes finding mine as he walks past. He offers me a small, apologetic smile before he, too, disappears into the living room.

I stay rooted to the spot with one foot on the first step. Cole’s name is mentioned more than once before I finally hurry upstairs. Why are they talking and not out there looking for him?

As soon as I enter my room, I make a beeline for my laptop on the desk. The dark night outside seeps through the glass, and when I lift my gaze, I’m met by my own haunted reflection in the window. I look like shit: cheeks smeared with blood, an eye that’s almost swollen shut, and a busted lip. There’s more dried blood on my hands and underneath my nails. My knuckles are split, too. They sting like a motherfucker when I flex my fingers, but the pain is soothing. At least it gives me something else to focus on instead of the pit in my stomach.

I type in Cole’s dad’s name and scroll through the search results. There’s not much, but maybe I’ll find something that’ll give me a clue if I keep hunting.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I slide it out to check the caller ID. Tiago. After silencing the call, I toss the phone onto the desk. Guilt gnaws at my gut, but my head is all over the place. It continues ringing. I wait it out, watching Tiago smile on my phone screen before it goes dark. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I lean forward to click on another article⁠—

The door opens behind me, and I straighten up. Dad enters the room, looking significantly more tired than he did earlier. He has loosened his tie and runs a hand through his dark hair.

“Have they found them?” I ask as he slides his hands into his pockets. He shakes his head once. “No,” is his response. “They haven’t.”

“Well?” I ask, my voice wobbling like my chin. “What did they say? Are they out there looking for them? Have they got any clues of where he took them?”

“I don’t know, son.”

We stare at each other.

I feel helpless. Dad always has the answers. Always knows the right thing to say or how to handle difficult situations. He never looks this…defeated.

Swallowing hard, I dip my chin to my chest. I should jump in my car and drive around town. They can’t have gone far, right? Maybe I’ll spot them somewhere.

Dad walks deeper into the room and, without asking questions, pulls me into his arms again. I’m stiff at first. Dad doesn’t do emotions. He shouts and stomps around the house like a dictarian.

“The police will find them,” he says.

“What if they don’t? What if he hurts them?”

“He won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Instead of replying, he steps back and puts his hands on my shoulders. “We have to trust the police. They have their best men on the case.”

“Trust the police?” My voice is shrill. “Cole’s dad is a cop. He has a restraining order against him, yet they let him keep his fucking badge. They’re all corrupt.”

He looks at me peculiarly, then sighs and drops his hands. “Try to get some rest, son.”

“Try to get some… Try to get some rest? Your wife is missing. Don’t you fucking care?”

“Don’t swear at me,” he replies. “Of course, I care, but there’s nothing else we can do tonight.”

“So we do what? Nothing?”

“We’ll know more by the morning.” He crosses the room to the door, and I call out, “They could be dead tomorrow.”

Dad stops in his tracks, his shoulders stiff. “They won’t be.”

He leaves the room without another word, and I slump back against the desk. My anger rears at his blasé attitude. Why isn’t he as frantic as me? His wife is missing—kidnapped by her ex-husband.

“Fuck,” I groan and scrub my hands over my face. My phone vibrates on the desk, sliding sideways with each ‘brrrrr.’

I pick it up and unlock the screen before it can fall to the floor. It’s Tiago again.

“Don’t ignore me when I call you,” he says the moment I press the phone to my ear.

“Look, tonight is not a good time⁠—”

“I know what’s going on.”

I stiffen. “You do?”

“It’s on the news.”

Crossing the room, I switch on the TV on my dresser. Two pictures, side by side, of Cole and his mom fill the screen. My butt meets the springy mattress. I swallow hard. Tiago’s voice drifts in and out of my consciousness. It didn’t feel real earlier, not like this.

“What can I do to help?” he asks. “I’ve got Ronnie on the other line, too.”

I lower the phone and stare at his smiling photograph before pressing it to my ear again. What can he do? Maybe my father is right. Is there nothing we can do? We don’t know where they are or even where to start searching.

“I don’t know,” I reply, feeling so damn useless. Cole must be so scared. My heart aches at the thought, and the urge to smash something to bits—to break and destroy things—floods through me. I’m up on my feet in the next second, the phone forgotten on the bed.

Tearing the lamp from my nightstand, I throw it full force at the wall. Nothing survives my burning fury. I throw and punch and kick and rage. I overturn the desk chair and unleash all my pent-up anger by driving my boot into it over and over again until my T-shirt sticks to the sweat on my back and my muscles burn with exertion. I barely notice.

When I finally look up, I pause.

Dad stares at me in the doorway, shock written on his face. It’s only now that the extent of my fury dawns on me. My gaze drifts over my destroyed bedroom, which looks like a tornado swept through it and uprooted everything. I’m shaking all over with adrenaline. My teeth chatter.

Dad’s eyes meet mine, and then he turns around and leaves. I stare at the gaping doorway, but he doesn’t return.

Exhaustion swoops in, and I plop down on the mattress, which is now void of pillows and a blanket.

Tiago’s tinny voice disturbs the silence. “Blaise? Talk to me. Are you okay?”