Excerpt from King’s

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KING'S

San Francisco.

Present Day. 5:57 p.m.

I squirmed in my tight gray pencil-skirt from behind the antique desk and forced myself to look away.

Three minutes to go.

But I didn't need a clock to tell me that. I knew it. My stomach knew it. And the sweat trickling down the small of my back beneath my fitted white blouse knew it.

Focus on something else, Mia.

I glanced at the drizzle of rain collecting outside on the office window, but I couldn't see past the film of dirt. Even if I could, I wouldn't see clouds or the long-overdue rain. I would only see him. Or, really, the mental ghost of his tailored black suit, jet-black hair, and pale gray eyes powering through me from the darkened doorway, cautioning me not to speak. That was how he greeted me each evening before he walked directly to his private office and shut the door, leaving behind a subtle trail of delicious cologne. There would be no other exchange between us. His cologne. My nose. Oh yes, I almost forgot. The phone calls.

At exactly 6:02 p.m., he would call my desk, a mere five feet from his door, and say in that deep, mesmerizing voice that sent prickly chills to my bones, "That will be all, Miss Turner."

Those five feet felt like a thousand miles of scorching desert. One I dared not cross. Because while some people might be fooled by the exquisite lines of his handsome face or by his European arrogance that reeked of old money, I was not. I saw right through that rapturous smile. He was a cruel, sadistic son of a bitch. That was the only explanation as to why he kept me waiting like this, day after agonizing day, forcing me to swallow back my bile while the clock ticked away, all sense of hope dying with every breath I took.

I glanced at the clock once again.

One minute to go.

I continued reminding myself that I had to be strong this time—no getting tongue-tied or woozy—and demand what was mine. We had a deal. I wanted his help; he wanted…well, me. As his assistant. Only I just sat there like his personal museum piece. 6:00 a.m. to 6:02 p.m. Six days a week. On the sixth floor.

The devil likes sixes,I thought, so why wouldn't this guy?

What my new employer didn't like, however, were questions. "Just do, Miss Turner. Just do," he'd say.

"But do what?" I would ask.

Then he'd laugh, causing deep creases to form on both sides of his wickedly beautiful mouth. "As you are told, Miss Turner. As you are told," he'd say while his hypnotic, cold gaze said something else: I own you now. Don't you ever fucking forget it.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he did own me. I didn't know anymore. I just knew that I'd given up regretting the choice I'd made on that horrible, dark and rainy night when I'd come to him, crawling on hands and knees, praying he'd be the miracle I needed. But from the first moment he saw me, he was like a shark that tasted blood. Only, it was my desperation and weakness that had him salivating. And the things he did to me over this very desk I now sat at…Oh Lord, I can't bear to think about it. I should have turned around and run when I had the chance. Instead, I told myself that whatever it took, whatever the price, it was worth it. If he were the goddamned devil himself, it didn't matter. Just as long as he helped me.

But that was three long weeks ago, and my decision to make a deal with this evil man had bought me nothing but more time to think. Mostly about my fears. Fears I now knew inside and out. Fears that pecked away at the flesh of my soul like hell's vultures while I sat in a giant empty loft that no one ever visited, with a phone that never rang. Except when he called.

The clock on the wall struck six. The witching hour.

My gaze focused on the doorway, and I willed my unsteady nerves not to feel, not to be awestruck by the tall, supremely masculine figure I expected to find.

Empty.

I glanced down at my wristwatch, then back at the doorway. Where was he? I pulled a sharpened pencil from the holder—the only other thing on my desk aside from the phone and lamp—and began flicking the unused eraser against my palm.

6:01. My pulse accelerated.

He'd never been late. Not once. Had the evil bastard skipped town without holding up his end of the bargain? It's not like there was anything in this office he couldn't leave behind: two desks, two chairs, and two brass lamps. No computers. No mail. No clients. It was unsettling.

"Son of a bitch," I whispered. We had a deal.

I stared at the goddamned door, willing the sharp angles of his cheeks and his square, broad shoulders to darken it.

Nothing.

I glanced one last time at the clock.

6:02.

The phone on my lonely desk rang, jolting me in my chair.

Crap.

My hand shook as I reached for it. "He—hello?"

"It is time, Miss Turner."

"King?"

"No. It's your fucking fairy godmother, Miss Turner. And your wish has been granted."

I was speechless. Not because of what he said, but because his voice had such a crippling effect on me. In a million years, I'd never be able to articulate how he so rigidly divided my mind from my body. Hate and desire. My two halves sickened by each other.

"Miss Turner?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"As usual, Miss Turner, I find myself questioning the value of our arrangement. One would expect his assistant to possess the ability to speak, at the very fucking least."

I wanted to tell him that he was the devil. The goddamned devil. Instead, I eked out two tiny words. Two words that I instantly despised myself for saying. They were weak. They were submissive. They were the last things on my mind, yet I said them anyway. "Thank you."

He laughed, sounding all too pleased. "Be at the airport with your passport in two hours. I'll email you the itinerary."

I wanted to ask where we were going, but knew better; he didn't like questions, and he was giving me what I wanted: help. At least, I hoped.

"And, Miss Turner?" he added.

"Ye—yes?"

"Pack light. None of those fucking useless heels. Where we're going, you'll only need your wits. Anything else is just dead weight."

The phone clicked.

"King?"

The angry sound of a busy signal poured through the receiver.

Once again, I found myself wondering who I'd gotten myself mixed up with.

He's the man who can find anything, Mia. Anything. For a price.

If that was the case, would he find the one thing in this world I couldn't live without that had been taken from me?

I'd never know if I didn't go.

Four Weeks Earlier.

San Francisco.

"Honey, you look a little…pale," said my mother. Her powder-blue eyes, eyes much like my own, narrowed with suspicion from across my breakfast table. "You're not coming down with that flu, are you? It's going around."

"Fall is always the worst time of year," added my father, a retired school principal who now spent his days playing golf, fishing, and talking about random, meaningless crap he saw on the news. "They have fifteen new strains already. Fifteen. And none of them are covered by the flu shot."

"Makes me wonder why we get one every year," my mother commented as she took a bite of her bagel, our usual Sunday brunch. Although they lived only five blocks away on Nob Hill in a renovated Victorian that had been in the family for over a hundred years, we didn't see each other much. My advertising job as a global campaign manager kept me on the road a lot.

"Yeah. Makes you wonder," I added absently, sipping my coffee, a cold sweat building on my brow.

My father went on to talk about the fascinating process for deciding which viruses were picked to be the lucky winners each year or something like that. I stopped listening after the first ten words because my mind was preoccupied with something unimaginably horrific that I'd learned only three minutes prior to my parents' arrival. Something that would devastate them like it had just devastated me.

Kidnapped…How am I going to tell my parents?

You're not. This can't be real.

Besides, who would want to take Justin?My baby brother was the nicest guy on the planet. Ever. He was the sort of person who'd pick up worms off the sidewalk after a good rain and put them somewhere safe.

Who would want to harm him? Justin, of all people?

It wasn't like Justin and his team were digging up gold treasures down in Mexico; they were excavating ancient pots and plates—crap like that. I remember how excited he was when he'd found a pre-Hispanic button. But were those worth his life?

He's not dead, Mia. Not yet.

"Honey?" my mother asked. "Mia." She snapped her fingers and then looked at my father. "I think that blonde hair has gotten to her head."

I'd just had my wavy locks colored and then cut into a shoulder-length A-line bob the week before. It was practically the same shade I'd always had, just with a few highlights. The woman at the salon told me it would make my blue eyes pop. Not true. But I remembered telling Justin about it. That was the last time we spoke.

Fuck. How? How can this be happening?

I blinked and lifted my head. "I'm going to Mexico to see Justin for a few weeks."

"Oh." My mom's opportunistic eyes lit up. "That's wonderful! You haven't had a vacation in years. But I thought you were due in New York tomorrow."

"Change of plans," I explained. "Spur-of-the-moment thing. Completely forgot to tell you."

"Fantastic!" she said. "I'll run home and bring you the care package I was about to mail off. I got him all of his favorite seaweed treats and those socks he loves. You have room in your luggage, right?"

I nodded and faked a smile. "Sure. Plenty of room."

My father was silent for a few moments. "Mia, I know you're a world traveler, one of those jet-setters…"

Jet-setter?Did people even use that term anymore? I didn't know.

"But," he continued, "you should be careful. That place is dangerous. All those bandidos kidnapping people. And do you have any idea how many murders there are every year?"

Over thirty-one thousand. At least, that was what the internet said. In any case, was Justin now one of them? Or did he fall into that other category? The narcos kidnapped people all the time to supplement their incomes.

"Oh, honey," my mother swatted my father's arm, "don't scare Mia. I'm sure she'll be fine. Besides, she'll be with Justin. Won't you, honey?" Justin was twenty-five, a year younger than me, but he was a big guy, just like my dad.

"Sure. I'll be with him the entire time," I lied.

My father leaned back in the chair, disapproval flickering in his green eyes, the same color eyes as Justin's. I wanted to scream. "Just be careful, Mia."

I took a breath, barely able to hold my composure. "I'll be fine, Dad. I promise." But I wouldn't be fine, and neither would they.

"Oh! I wish I could go with you! I'm dying to see Palenque." My mother paused. "You'll be back in time for my birthday, right? We're having a crab feed right on the pier."

I smiled and grabbed her hand. "Wouldn't miss it, Mom."

But that would become just another lie in a string of many to come, because our lives would never be the same.

When I'd received the phone call from the US Embassy in Mexico City informing me that my brother and his team had been kidnapped from their archaeological dig site near Palenque, I had the distinct impression I was being sold a barrel of bullshit. After all, I was in advertising. I could smell bullshit from a mile away. The woman from the embassy assured me that the local police were doing everything they could to find the people who'd taken the team, but when she insisted there was no need for me to come to Mexico, my mind tripped. I felt like she was trying to keep me away. That was why I had to go.

After I got rid of my parents with some excuse of needing to run errands before the trip, I rang back the embassy. I couldn't remember her name, but I'd never forget her sticky sweet, bullshit voice. When I told her I was coming to Mexico to see her, she immediately pushed back.

"I can't just stay here doing nothing," I told her.

"Ma'am, we realize how traumatic this must be, but we advise the families of victims to stay home and focus on supporting each other. Let us work with the Mexican authorities."

"He's my brother, and I'm not asking permission. I will be involved."

There was a long pause, then a crackle on the other end of the phone. Was she eating a snack? "If you choose to come, we cannot stop you." She crunched down on whatever she was eating. "We simply ask that you do not impede the investigation."

Why would I want to impede anyone from finding my brother?

"Just tell me who to ask for when I get there," I said.

I heard the sound of more crunching. Heartless bitch.

"You can ask for me, Jamie Henshaw."

I scribbled down her name, holding back a terrible scream. "Fine. Got it. Please call my cell if you hear anything else." I knew she wouldn't, but I asked anyway.

"Will do." Crunch. "And again, our deepest sympathies."

"Why? He's not dead." I hung up the phone and swallowed the icy blizzard of rage threatening to undo me. But I had to keep my head straight. I was no good to anyone if I lost it.

I opened up my laptop and booked the first available morning flight to Mexico City. Though Justin had disappeared from the south of Mexico, just outside Palenque in the state of Chiapas, I would stop at the embassy first, gather up any details, and then continue on, so I could meet with the local authorities. I could only hope my high school Spanish would get me by.

The next evening, I arrived in Mexico City, and as soon as I passed Immigration and Customs, I grabbed a cab and left a message for the cracker-eating bitch. I let her know I was staying a few blocks from the embassy off the Paseo de la Reforma, so I'd see her first thing in the morning. I then checked into my room, ready to pass out. It was already ten o'clock at night, and I hadn't eaten in almost a day, but that didn't stop me from hitting the minibar. My nerves called for something strong. Whiskey.

I kicked off my red patent leather heels, plopped down on the sofa chair, pounded down a shot, then opened my laptop. Some might think me callous and uncaring, but at a time like this, checking work email was the only thing helping me hold the line. My sanity teetered on the precipice of self-destruction and hysteria. But I refused to allow my imagination to gain a foothold, because I knew the only thing it had to offer were images of Justin screaming as his throat was slit or he was beaten with a lead pipe. The people in this country who made it a business to steal human beings for profit were no strangers to torture and violence. I remember once flipping the channels when I'd been in Buenos Aires on a business trip for a global launch of a new perfume line. (That was my specialty, high-end fragrance campaigns.) But I'd never forget the images on the evening news. Bodies lit on fire, dangling from an overpass in Mexico City. I spoke enough Spanish to understand that they'd been victims of a kidnapping, but their families either couldn't or wouldn't pay the ransom.

So yeah, maybe I was in denial or being heartless, but keeping my mind from wandering was the only thing preventing me from falling to my knees, helplessly weeping for Justin. If I were to be of any use, I had to stay strong.

That meant more whiskey.

I scooted off the bed and dug through the mini-fridge. "Shit. Really?" There was tequila, vodka, and rum, but no more whiskey. I grabbed the bottle of rum—what the hell did I care at this point?—and drank it down. "Okay. I guess I do care. Tastes like shit."

I called room service, ordered more reinforcements, spread out on the bed, and went back to my emails.

Email from my global VP, Jim, in New York. Please give status on Project Windpipe. That was the code name for our holiday, celebrity singer fragrance pack. Four Grammy winners for the price of one. Plus a pair of slippers.

We will still hit the schedule. No issues,I replied.

Email from my best friend, Becca. We grew up together, and our moms were close. Where the hell are you, Mia? Your mom says you went to see your brother? Can't believe you didn't take me. Hate you. Mean it. Call me when you get back. –Love, Becca

I didn't want to lie to Becca, so I dropped her email in the trash file. It was better to say nothing and face her wrath later on.

Email from Sean. I gawked at his note. Are you in NY? Hungry? I'm starved. That was his code for "Let's hook up."

"No, I won't be in New York this week for a booty call," I mumbled aloud and took another sip of my rum. It was my own damned fault he sent me those notes. Every time I went to New York, I ended up calling him after whatever business dinner I attended. We'd usually meet at his place, tumble in the sheets, and leave it at that. We never saw each other any other time.

There was a knock at the hotel room door. "Finally." Reinforcements.

I slid off the bed and yanked open the door. "Thanks, I really—"

Two men dressed in black, wearing ski masks, pushed their way into the room. The one closest to me cupped his hand over my mouth and threw me to the floor, pinning me beneath him.

"Do not scream," he whispered with a thick Mexican accent, "or I will cut your throat."

I get that at times like this, I should've been thinking about how to survive. And maybe I was, but I quickly realized that two large, armed men against one unarmed, hundred-and-thirty-five-pound woman didn't have much of a chance of surviving. Especially given that the man standing had his gun pointed at my head.

Instead of fighting, I reverted to praying they wouldn't violate me or, worse, drag me off into the night. I couldn't help Justin if I ended up just like him.

I nodded several times, his hand smothering my whimpers of panic.

"Good." I felt his hot breath in my ear. He smelled of tequila and sweat. His free hand slithered up my torso and brutally fondled my breast. "You like that, Mia?"

Oh God.He knew my name. This wasn't some random assault.

I clenched my eyes shut and shook my head no.

"I do," he breathed into my ear. "And if you're not on a plane home by tomorrow morning, I've been given permission to take anything I want before I kill you. Nod if you understand."

I nodded and felt the sting of salty tears trickling from the corners of my eyes.

"Bien, mujer. Espero que no nos encontramos pronto."

I didn't understand, but I assumed it was one final threat.

Before I could respond, the two men were gone, the door of my hotel room shut. I rolled over on my stomach and sobbed into the palms of my hands. As soon as I was able to stand—I don't know how long it took—I was checked out and in a cab back to the airport. I figured I would be safer there until my flight.

Oh, God. Justin. What are you mixed up in?

From the moment I fled that hotel room in Mexico City, I knew the situation was far worse than Justin simply being taken by narcos for ransom. Someone didn't want him to be found. But why? It was the only thought I'd had on the long flight back to San Francisco.

I unlocked the door to my sparsely decorated, fourth-story apartment—I traveled a lot, so what was the point of owning plants or having tons of fancy furniture no one would see or use?—and threw my bag on the living room floor. I needed sleep. I needed to clear my head.

I drew my curtains to shut out the sunlight and looked at my watch. Two ten in the afternoon. I'd only been gone one day, but it seemed like a lifetime ago.

I sank down on the couch and covered my face with my cold, cold hands. Shit. I had to tell someone. Especially after those bastards threatened me in the hotel room. But who could I go to? My parents? Telling them that Justin was missing would only cause them pain. And knowing my dad, stubborn man that he was, he'd be on the first plane to Mexico. I couldn't allow that. I couldn't let him get mixed up in whatever crap was going on. Involving my friends, especially Becca, wasn't an option either. She adored Justin, and it would break her heart. She also never kept anything from her mother, and her mother couldn't keep a secret if her life depended on it. My mother would be freaking out on my doorstep within the hour.

Shit.I had no idea what to do, and I needed help. Maybe the State Department or the FBI or…

My phone vibrated, and I slipped it from my jeans pocket. I had a message from a number in Mexico. It was over three hours old. I must've missed it while on the plane.

I held the phone to my ear. "Hello, Mia. This is Jamie Henshaw. I received your message this morning and had expected to see you today. I hope everything is all right?" It's strange how some people have the ability to say one thing but mean the opposite. "Please call me when you get this. I have some news about your brother."

I dialed her and began pacing the floor. Please be good news. Please be good news. Please be—

She answered immediately.

"This is Mia Turner. I got your message."

"Mia. Ah, yes." There was some crackling in the background.

More crackers? Bitch.

"Are you still planning to come by the embassy today?" Once again, her tone sounded snide and flippant, as if she hoped I wouldn't ever darken her doorstep.

"No," I replied. "Something came up. I had to fly home this morning. I just got in."

"Oh, I see." Happy. She was happy. "I'm sorry to hear that. But I think your time would have been wasted either way. We received confirmation that your brother was not present during the incident."

"Sorry?"

"The police questioned a few locals who knew your brother. They said he'd left several days earlier."

My heart raced with joy. Justin wasn't taken. Justin wasn't taken.

"So where is he?"

"The authorities say he took a flight to London."

London?But Justin would have called. Or emailed. Or something. More bullshit.

"Are you sure? Did the police talk to his roommate?" I knew that Justin shared an apartment with some American guy, but I didn't know who he was.

"I assume so, but I don't know for sure."

Wouldn't that be an important question for her to ask the police? And now that I started to think about it, wasn't this a bit of a coincidence? I went to Mexico to find out what happened to Justin and was run out of the country. Then, all of a sudden, I'm being told he's gone somewhere else? I was being led away. Why?

"Can I have the date and flight number?" I asked.

"I'm sorry, I don't have that information. But if you want to find your brother, I suggest you start in London. And if you do track him down, please have him contact us. The local authorities want to question him. His team is still missing, and there's been no demand for a ransom."

I covered my mouth. Their poor families. "But how do I—"

The call ended abruptly.

"What in the world?" I stared at the phone, thinking that I'd just been served another helping of BS from that lady. If Justin had left Mexico, which I absolutely didn't believe, why wouldn't he have called me? And it wasn't like he'd just up and leave work. This archaeological dig was a big, big deal, and Justin had to answer to the foundation that funded the dig. There was no way he'd blow everything off. And if he had left, he would have checked in, and he'd know by now that something happened to his team. He'd be right back in Mexico, worried sick.

All signs pointed to something bad having happened to Justin, yet I couldn't let go of the unrealistic hope that he might be all right and that this was all some horrible misunderstanding.

I sank back down on my couch and smoothed my hands over my tangled curls. "Crap." I blew out a long breath. Okay. If Justin got on a plane, there would be a record. So who could help me find it?

The next day, after calling several airlines and being told there was no way in hell I'd be getting a hold of any flight records, I decided my best bet was the local FBI office. I'd never been inside, but had walked past it a million times. It was a 1920s-style brick building with a large marble lobby. Once past the metal detectors, I was directed to a room with a long line, where I waited for over four hours only to be told that no one could help me. If my brother was missing, I'd have to file a report with the police. When I explained he was out of the country, the man told me to file a report with the local police, then contact the nearest embassy or consulate.

"But I just need to know if he flew to the UK," I argued.

The agent, Agent Screwyou, who wore a shitty brown tie that matched the shitty brown frames of his thick glasses, made it clear that his patience had worn thin. "If your brother got on a plane to the UK, then it sounds to me like he's fine. Missing, kidnapped, and dead people generally don't board planes."

Smartass."But—"

"Go hire a private detective. We can't help you." He leaned to the side and called for the next person.

Asshole.I headed straight for the door and slipped out my phone. Shit, Mia, what are you going to do now?

A frigid gust tunneled between the skyscrapers through the downtown street, lashing everyone with its unwelcome chill. I walked over to a barista cart and ordered a black coffee to fit my mood and the weather. San Francisco was generally cool all year round, but when we got wind, we got wind. When we got rain, we got rain. And today, the dark gray sky threatened to unleash a fury of wetness. I instantly regretted my choice of wardrobe—a pair of red Manolo heels, a black skirt, and button-down white blouse—unfit for any severe weather. I buttoned up my camel-hair coat and sipped my hot coffee while I checked my emails on my phone. There were ten from my boss, three from Becca, and a hundred others. I'd only been out of the office three days, but the work had piled up.

Maybe I did need help. God knew I was emotionally fried, scared, and at my wits' end. So perhaps Agent Screwyou's idea wasn't so bad. I sat down at the little table beside the coffee cart and began searching for a private detective. There were hundreds, but all geared toward infidelity, background checks, or surveillance.

On the third page of searches, I found a nonprofit. The World Center for Missing Persons and Abducted Children dealt with international cases. I looked them up on the map. They were located on the other side of the city, only a fifteen-minute cab ride.

I chucked my coffee and successfully hailed a cab at the precise moment the rain started to pour. I was damned lucky; a few minutes from now, there wouldn't be a vacant cab anywhere in the city.

I slid inside and gave the address just as my phone rang. I looked at the number, but it was blocked. "Hello?" There was a ton of static on the line. "Hello?"

"Mia."

Holy shit."Justin, is that you?"

I heard his voice again, but it was breaking up. I couldn't understand a word.

"Justin! Justin!" I repeated frantically into the phone. "Where are you?"

He spoke again, but it was pure garble.

"Justin, if you can hear me, tell me where you are!"

"Don't…come…looking. Not. Safe." The line crackled once more. "Love you. Go—" crackle, "bye."

The call ended. "Justin. Justin. No."

Oh my god. Please call me back. Please. I stared at the phone, willing it to ring. It didn't. I dialed his cell, but it went into voicemail just as it had the last twenty times.

"Ma'am, that will be eleven dollars." Had I arrived already?

I looked up at the driver, who seemed immune to my meltdown. He probably saw his fair share of drama on a daily basis. I shoved a twenty into the slot and scrambled out of the cab.

I didn't know what to do. I was losing my mind. Justin was alive, but he needed help, and I felt so useless.

The sky shook with thunder, and the rain fell in giant sloppy drops. I slipped inside the building, dripping, sobbing, and unable to stop myself from sounding like a madwoman.

The young woman at the reception desk, a thin brunette with her hair pulled back, stood when she saw me.

I didn't know why, but I held out the phone as if I believed she could magically make Justin call me again. "Please, I need help."

Her eyes widened with worry. "Of course. Come with me."

I spent the next hour telling a case manager about Justin's situation, the important parts, anyway. When I hiccupped, she gave me tea. When I cried, she gave me tissues. She was a good listener, I had to give her that, but sharing my burden out loud made it all real, and that completely unraveled me.

"Mia, you need to tell your family," she advised. Her reddish hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her brown eyes had that worn look to them, like she'd seen a lot in her lifetime, although she couldn't have been a day over fifty.

What is her name? Why can't I remember it?

"I can't tell my parents. It's too dangerous," I said.

"Okay. But you can't deal with this on your own."

"Can't you help me?" That was why I was there.

"We work with refugees from war-torn countries, looking for missing loved ones."

I opened my eyes, really opened them, and looked around the woman's cramped office with 1970s-style office furniture. Fliers for Amnesty International and crisis management informational leaflets were posted everywhere.

I sank my face into my hands. "I'm such an idiot." I'd spent the last hour pouring my heart out to this woman, and she knew I was in the wrong place. I mean, it was the right place, but not a place that could help me.

I stood and wiped away the never-ending stream of tears trickling down my raw face. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea." I dug through my purse and shoved a bunch of twenties at her. "Here. Take this. A donation."

She pushed my hand away. "No. It's all right, Mia."

"I feel terrible. I'm so embarrassed."

"Don't be. But I meant what I said; you need your family. You can't go through this alone."

I nodded and headed for the front door. It was pitch-black outside, and the rain hadn't let up one bit, not that I cared. "Thank you. I-I—never mind. Just…thank you."

My red heels hit one giant puddle after another as I slogged down the street. What was her name? Why can't I remember it? I'm losing my mind, that's why. I'm a mess. A mess. And Justin needs me. You'd think I'd have the decency to remember that woman's name after she sat there for an hour listening to me—

"Mia!"

The scream broke me from my jumbled stream of thoughts. I turned my head and saw the young receptionist chasing after me down the sidewalk.

"Here. Take this." She shoved a piece of paper into my hand. A bolt of thunder licked the sky, and the woman jumped. "It's an address. But you didn't get it from me. Okay?"

"For what?" I asked.

"Not what. Who." She flashed a nervous glance over her shoulder. "He might be able to help you."

"Who is he?" I asked. But honestly, I didn't care. Help was help.

"My sister's husband was kidnapped during a trip to Colombia. This man found him. They say he can find anything or anyone." She paused. "For a price. A steep price. But promise you won't tell him who sent you. He doesn't like people talking."

I didn't understand why. If this man made it his business to find people, then wouldn't he want a referral?

"Just…" Once again, she glanced over her shoulder toward her building. Why did I feel like we were dealing drugs or guns or something? "Just ask him his price. Tell him that everything has a price, and you want to know his."

"Uhhh, thanks." Just what I needed, some asshole extortionist to suck my bank account dry.

Perhaps sensing my apprehension, she looked me in the eyes. And like an old Frankenstein movie, the lightning struck, allowing me to see her concerned face. "He can help you, Mia. I swear it. But the man is…he's…" She stopped herself. "I gotta go." She headed back toward the building.

"What's his name?" I called out.

She stopped just short of the building's entrance. "King. His name is King."