“Get out,” I tell Robbie, staying slumped against the wall. I don't even raise my head to look her in the eyes. That, that is how much of a coward I truly am. “Because no matter what you say or do, no matter how hard I try, I will never ever,” I look up at the ceiling, “like you.”
Robbie stays frozen for a moment, waiting, I think, for me to take back my words. On the surface, they mean nothing. Like? What does that even mean? What is like compared to all of the other emotions of the world? It's not love. Not as powerful as hate. It's just … nothing. But on the inside, Robbie and I both know what it means. A chance, an opportunity, the seed of that rose bush she so desperately wants to grow, but that I refuse to plant.
“Get out. Go home. Let your father love you and raise you and go find a man who doesn't need to be fixed. Get that stupid fantasy out of your head and move the fuck on.”
Robbie doesn't respond, stepping back and turning away. Her white flats squeak against the wood floor as she approaches the front door. When her hand closes on the knob, she pauses again, waiting, waiting, waiting for me to act like a real man.
I remain a coward.
“Get the fuck out!” I scream, standing up straight and grabbing a book from the shelf. I toss it at the wall next to her, seething with rage, completely torn apart, not Luke, not Lucas, just a ghost of a shadow of a man. “Get the fuck out. I never want to see your face again. If I do … ” I take a deep breath and let my mouth form the worst lie I've ever told. “If I do, I will fucking kill you. Out. Out. Go.”
Robbie tears the front door open and lets it slam into the wall. As she stumbles down the steps of the porch, I feel the first hint of wetness on my face. Confused, I touch a fingertip to my cheek and come away with the salty remnants of a tear.
I don't know how long I slept. It might've been a day or three days or a week. The only thing I'm aware of is that when I wake up, there are police pounding on my door.
“What?” I snarl as I rip open the door and scowl my best scowl at the uniformed officers crowding my front porch. In a daze, I stumbled out of the shower that fateful day and took care of all the evidence. All of it. If they're here for that incident, they won't find a thing. Not a fucking thing.
“Mr. Carter.” It's Barry Craig again. “We have another search warrant for your place.” I stare at him, unbelieving until he produces another piece of official paperwork and some crime scene techs squeeze in past me with more police officers in tow.
“How? What?” I snatch the paper from his hand and look up into his stoic face. He doesn't seem as ornery as he was last time. I even received a package from the police department with the 'evidence' they previously collected from my place. So why do I see Robbie's name on this paper?
“Roberta Carrell was kidnapped from her bedroom this morning by a man in a white coat and gloves with duct tape wrapped around his face. Only his eyes were visible, according to the little sister. Unfortunately, you're our prime suspect.” Barry Craig gives me a once over, taking in my disheveled appearance, my wrinkled robe, the dark circles under my eyes. I refuse to give anything away, not a grimace, not a frown, not a blink. Nothing. I stand there staring for a moment, and then I step back and allow him in. “Is it true you had a relationship with Miss Carrell?” Barry asks as his crew starts to strip my place down to the studs.
“No.”
The word barely escapes my lips, floating in the dusky sunshine that leaks in the front door. From the set of the sun, I can only guess the time, but it isn't morning anymore, that's for sure. Which means Robbie's been missing all day. Missing. No, not missing – kidnapped. Spirited away.
Stolen.
She's been stolen.
My heart thumps painfully as I struggle to maintain control of myself.
“Mr. Carter?” Barry Craig is speaking to me again, but I'm having a hard time listening to him. Instead, I pull my cell out of the pocket of my robe. I have a dozen or so missed calls from Audra Holiday and several voice mails and text messages. According to the calendar on my phone, it's been almost seventy-two hours since the incident at The Wild Tuna.
I pull up the texts, hoping that Audra's intuitiveness has kept her from revealing anything important.
Lucas, I know the rehearsal dinner was a disaster, but your best man is still in.
I skip to the next message.
Best man is not listed in the announcement. I only see the bridesmaid's name. Help me with this.
I continue through the cryptic messages, putting together a pretty clear picture in my head.
Lloyd Owens is not dead.
I don't argue with myself or wonder how, after I stabbed him several times in the gut, he didn't die. I don't worry about the police or the investigation or wonder if I'm making the right decision. Instead, I hand the phone over to Barry Craig.