45. Chapter 45

45

Wren

" F uck." I slam my phone down after the twentieth failed call to John. The screen mocks me; no missed calls, no texts. Nothing.

I unfold the crumpled paper again, my eyes burning holes into the scrawled message:

"1408 RIVERSIDE DRIVE. 10 PM. COME ALONE IF YOU WANT TO SEE JOHN DAVIS AGAIN."

My gut twists.

This has to be bullshit. Some sick prank.

But what if it's not?

The diner's bell jangles, and I shove the note into my pocket. Rosie steps out, squinting in the sun.

"Christ, Wren, you look like shit. What's up?"

I clench my jaw, forcibly shifting my expression to a blank slate. "Everything's just fucking dandy. A goddamn picnic," I spit.

My chest rises and falls in a frantic rhythm, as if I'm trying to force the worry and fear down like a rat stuck in my throat.

"Bullshit," Rosie snaps, not buying it. "Spill."

A gust of wind whips my hair across my face. I use the moment to steady myself, shoving the panic down deep where it belongs.

"It's nothing," I say, tucking my hair behind my ear. "Just… family stuff."

Rosie's eyes narrow. "Your dad again?"

"John's… being fucking John."

Rosie glances at the customers waiting to be seated. She grabs a menu and gestures to an empty table.

"One second," she tells them, then turns back to me. Her voice drops. "What's really going on, Wren?"

I check my watch. 3:05 PM. Seven hours to figure out if this is real or just some fucked-up joke. I need to get home. Check on Em.

"Actually," I say, letting a sliver of worry show, "any chance you could cover for me? Just for an hour or two? I gotta check on Em."

Rosie's face softens. "Shit, why didn't you say so? Go. I've got you."

"You're a fucking saint, Rosie," I say, already untying my apron. I duck into the back, snagging my bag from my locker.

Joe's gruff voice stops me cold. "Where the hell you think you're going, Davis?"

I turn, meeting his glare head-on. "Sorry, Joe. Family shit. Rosie's covering."

Joe lets out a low grunt that sounds like a bear with indigestion. "Fine. But I'm docking your pay for this, Davis. And you're working a double tomorrow."

If I don't fucking die tonight.

I'm already halfway out the door. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, boss."

I burst through the diner's doors, blinded by the fucking sun. Squinting against the glaring light, I lift my hand to block the sun's onslaught, my wobbly legs driving me forward as I run like a maniac down the damn street.

My bag slaps against my hip with each step. My fingers fumble with my phone, dialing Em's number.

Ring. Ring. Fucking ring.

"Come on, pick up, Em," I mutter, dodging a group of tourists who are too busy gawking at their maps to watch where they're going.

"Hello?" Em responds.

"Em, thank fuck. You okay? Have you heard from Dad?"

"Wren? What's going on? I was just about to head out—"

"No!" I shout, earning a few startled looks from passersby. I lower my voice. "Stay put. I'm on my way home. Have you heard from Dad?"

There's a pause. "Not since yesterday. Wren, you're freaking me out. What's happening?"

"I don't know yet. Just… stay home, okay? Lock the doors. I'll explain everything soon."

I hang up before she can argue, my lungs burning as I push myself to run faster. As I round the corner onto Main Street, I nearly collide with Old Man Jenkins from the hardware store.

"Whoa there, Wren! Where's the fire?" he chuckles, steadying himself on his cane.

"Sorry, Jenks. Can't talk. Have you seen… John today?"

His bushy eyebrows furrow. "John? Can't say I have. Everything alright?"

I'm already moving past him. "It's fine. Thanks!"

Two blocks down, I screech to a halt outside Kim's Liquor Store.

Mr. Kim is outside, his wiry frame hunched over as he arranges a display of cheap vodka. The dude's face is frozen in a permanent scowl, his eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pulled into a tight frown. He looks like the only thing that could make him smile is a free bottle of vodka and a fucking million dollars.

I stop behind him. "Mr. Kim," I gasp, trying to catch my breath. "Have… have you seen John… Davis, my dad?"

The old man might as well be mute, for all I know. Never heard a peep from him, not even a fucking grunt. But then, I guess he's not here to be chatty. He's here to sell vodka and cigarettes to the kind of people who can't be bothered to give a shit about health or the law.

Mr. Kim's back remains turned to me, his hands mechanically arranging bottles like some kind of booze-obsessed robot. He lets out a hacking cough that sounds like it's dredging up decades of kimchi and cigarettes.

"Mr. Kim," I repeat, my voice edging toward desperation. "My dad. John Davis. Have you seen him?"

He pauses, one gnarled hand hovering over a bottle of off-brand vodka. Without turning, he grunts, "John Davis. Owe money. Three hundred dollar."

My stomach drops. Fuck. Of course Dad owes money. I dig into my pocket, fingers closing around a wad of crumpled bills. "I can pay it. Just… please. Have you seen him?"

Mr. Kim finally turns, his face as expressive as a slab of concrete. His eyes flick to the money in my hand, then back to my face. For a split second, I swear I see something—pity? Fear?—flicker in those dark eyes.

"No see John," he says flatly.

I take a step closer, the smell of stale beer and cheap air freshener assaulting my nostrils. "Mr. Kim, please. It's important. I think… I think he might be in trouble."

His eyebrows twitch—the Kim equivalent of a dramatic gasp. He glances over his shoulder at the store entrance, then back at me. "You come inside," he says abruptly, already turning away.

I follow him into the cramped store, dodging past shelves crammed with booze and snacks plastered with labels I can't read. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting weird shadows.

Mr. Kim disappears behind the counter, pointedly not looking at me. I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand. "Wait," he mutters.

A door creaks open behind the counter, and a tiny woman appears. Mrs. Kim, I assume. She takes one look at me and starts rapid-firing Korean at her husband.

Mr. Kim responds in equally rapid Korean, his eyes darting between his wife and me. I catch John's name in the mix.

Mrs. Kim's eyes widen. She turns to me, her face softening slightly. "You John daughter?" she asks, her accent thick.

I nod, hope flaring in my chest. "Yes. Have you seen him?"

The Kims exchange a look that makes my stomach clench. Finally, Mr. Kim sighs. "We see John. Yesterday. Not good."

"What the fuck does ‘not good' mean?" I snap, my hands gripping the counter edge so hard I half expect it to crack. Mr. Kim hesitates, then jerks his head toward a battered TV mounted in the corner. "We have camera. Show you."

He fiddles with some ancient-looking equipment under the counter. The TV screen flickers to life, showing a grainy black-and-white image of the storefront.

"There," Mrs. Kim says softly, pointing.

I lean in close, squinting at the fuzzy image. My heart nearly stops when I see him. Dad, looking small and hunched, flanked by two men in dark suits. Even through the crappy video quality, I can see the fear on his face.

"This is fucking fucked," I hiss under my breath.

As Mr. Kim fast-forwards, I feel blood drains from my face. There's no mistaking the black SUV or the men in suits, the same fucking goons I saw earlier. One of them, his hand hidden inside his jacket, fingers no doubt wrapped around a gun, shoves John toward the vehicle like he's a rag doll.

This can't be fucking real.