Inevitable Detour (5 page)

Silence.

“Hav, I’m coming in,” I announce in a loud voice.

I’m hoping not to walk in on her and Eric in some compromising position. But I need not worry. When I push open the door, there is no sign of Eric. In fact, the bed appears as if no one has slept in it, let alone engaged in
other
things. A quick survey of the room—neat and tidy, as always—leads me to surmise everything is in place. But the one thing glaring me in the face is that there is no Haven.

I know then that my best friend has been taken.

A
n hour later, I am arguing with a burly cop named Officer Knowles.

He rubs his beefy hand over his bald head, while he listens to me say, “Haven did
not
just leave. I know my best friend, and she’d never take off without telling me. Plus, I’ve called her cell, like, a hundred times, and it keeps going straight to voice mail. She wouldn’t turn off her phone like that. And, again, she wouldn’t pack up and leave the apartment without telling me.”

I’m adamant, but unfortunately, all signs do seem to indicate Haven has done exactly that. Not only is her car gone, but when Officer Knowles’s partner returns to the living room after searching the apartment, he reports that nothing is amiss.

“There are certainly no indications Haven Shaw was abducted,” he states firmly, his gaze sliding to me pointedly.

“What did you find?” Burly Knowles inquires.

“Absolutely no sign of any struggle,” the partner says. “In fact, there’s nothing to indicate anyone was ever in her bedroom with her. Everything appears to be in perfect order.” He pauses then turns to speak solely to me. “A few missing clothes, Miss Brant, doesn’t mean your roommate was abducted.”

His reference to the clothes I told him were missing doesn’t sway me. “It’s more than just a few,” I firmly state. “A
lot
of Haven’s clothes are gone, a bunch of her shoes, too. And her suitcase, the big one that holds a lot, isn’t in her closet. Half the makeup that was on her vanity is no longer there. Plus, her cell phone and purse are gone.”

I suspect that if Eric and Vincent abducted my friend—and I’m sure they did—they took the time to make it look like she left of her own volition. But I don’t have a chance to add that theory to the mix, as Officer Knowles, before I can speak, says gently, “I’m sorry your friend took off without telling you where she was heading. But these things happen all the time. The semester is over, finals are completed, people are anxious to take off, and—”

“Haven wouldn’t just leave in the middle of the night,” I interrupt, my voice but a whisper.

They don’t believe me
, I think.
And nothing is going to change their minds.

Officer Knowles clears his throat. “Bottom line, Miss Brant, is that there’s absolutely no sign of foul play. I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do.”

They’re going to leave. They’re going to walk out that door, and you’ll never find Haven.

“What about the men we brought home last night?” I blurt out. “Maybe you should talk to them. One of them could have driven Haven’s car. Maybe that’s why it’s missing. The other guy probably took her in the car they were driving. I gave you the description of the vehicle, right?”

“Yes,” Officer Knowles replies, sighing. He’s sounding put out now.

Still, I continue. “Just because her clothes and belongings were packed doesn’t mean
she
packed them. Even if she did, maybe she was forced to. Like, at gunpoint.”

There, I got that theory out. But all the officers do is roll their eyes.

I hurriedly add, “What about the aspirin the one named Vincent gave me? I think it could have been something else. I mean, I passed out immediately. And then I slept, like, forever.”

Officer Knowles shakes his head. “Miss, you told us all of this. And need I remind you that you also said you and your friend were out drinking last night. Perhaps that’s why you passed out and slept in so late.” He eyes me warily, sighs, and then concedes, “But we can talk to these two men, if it will make you feel better. Who knows…maybe your friend mentioned to one of these guys where she was going.”

Officer Knowles removes from his shirt pocket the small flip tablet and pen he used to take notes earlier. “What are the names of these two fellows?” he asks, huffing.

“Eric and Vincent,” I say. I begin to provide a quick description of each, but realize there was nothing distinguishing about either one of them. Sure, they were hot, and Eric did look like
True Blood
’s Eric. But still, when all is said and done my descriptions sound very general.

Officer Knowles dutifully jots down the info, and then he prompts, “Last names?”

“Uh…” I bite my lip, scrunch up my face.

“Miss Brant?”

“I don’t know their last names,” I admit.

He shakes his head and flips his tablet closed. “You said they were from out of town, though. Is that right?”

“Yes,” I reply. “They said they were from New York City.”

“Do you happen to know where in Oakwood they’re staying?”

“They never said.”

“Maybe nowhere,” Knowles’s partner muses.

“What do you mean?” asks Officer Knowles.

“They could have just driven in and driven back.”

“Hmm,” says Knowles. “That is a possibility. New York City is not that far away. They could have driven in yesterday and drove back last night.”

“Yeah, with Haven,” I cry out.

Both men shake their heads, and then Officer Knowles says, “I’m sorry, but there’s no proof of anything like that happening. No proof at all.”

“I just have a feeling,” I whisper.

To which he replies, “We operate on evidence, Miss Brant, not feelings.”

A
s the weekend progresses, I discover, to my chagrin, I am on my own in my search for Haven. I call a few of our mutual friends, but no one has heard anything from Haven. Everyone sounds rushed, and why wouldn’t they be? They’re all packing up and leaving for the summer. It doesn’t help that Haven’s quirkiness and spontaneity are common knowledge. No one sounds too concerned to hear she’s missing. They believe as the police do: Haven Shaw just up and took off.

No way.

I consider contacting Haven’s aunt, but I know in my heart that she doesn’t care what happens to Haven, not really. She’d probably just feel bothered if I were to call. It’s sad, but true.

I discard that plan immediately, and instead I try to contact Farren. Only problem is that the number Haven gave to me—for emergencies—is no longer in service.

“What next?” I ask myself on Monday morning.

Forty-eight hours have passed since Haven went missing. I’ve always heard the more time that passes the less chance there is of finding the person who’s missing.

Well, that is not an option.

With the town of Oakwood more or less empty, I climb into my little rust bucket of a car and embark on my own investigation. In the interest of self-protection, in case Eric and Vincent decide to return to take me too, my first stop is at a convenience store. There, I buy a container of pepper spray to put on my key chain. I’d rather be safe than sorry.

Next stop is Señor Frog’s. Sadly, I have no luck in finding any answers there. None of the employees who were working Friday night recall the two strange men. They don’t even remember me and Haven.

“Thanks, anyway,” I say dejectedly as I leave.

Discouraged, but determined, I drive over to the part of town where all the hotels and motels are located. I’m hoping to find out if Eric and Vincent stayed in any of them. But, again, no one knows anything. Maybe the two men did just drive in on Friday. But why would they bother to come to a place like Oakwood? Were they looking to hook up with two college girls? Recalling their stares, I question whether they specifically planned to meet us. Or, more specifically, was their plan to meet Haven?

I shudder.

Why in the world would Haven Shaw be a target?

On my way back to the apartment, I consider that the men may have been lying about many things. Perhaps they weren’t even from New York. Why, though, would Eric say such a thing if it wasn’t true? Looking back at our interaction with the men Friday night I find it flat-out weird. Like how New York was so easily injected into the conversation. It’s like the men knew all along that by saying they were from New York City it would appeal to Haven. Was Eric’s intent to make her trust them by creating a bond with her? Eric certainly had her attention, and the mention of New York seemed to seal the deal.

“Oh, Haven, where are you?” I whisper as I park in front of our apartment.

Where would Eric and Vincent take Haven? And why would they abduct her in the first place?
These are my thoughts as I lock up my car, and then slowly climb the stairs leading to the second floor. When I reach the door to our apartment, I take out my key and slide it into the lock.

As soon as I step inside, I know something is off. I sense I am not alone in the apartment. Slowly, I flip the safety switch on my newly acquired pepper spray. Attaching it to my key chain directly after buying it was a damn smart move.

But I have no time for self-congratulations, as I hear faint noises coming from Haven’s bedroom. It sounds as if drawers are being opened and closed. Quietly, I tiptoe over to the door to her room. For a minute, I feel elation. Maybe Haven has returned. Maybe she’s the person opening and closing the drawers. I want so badly for that to be true that I start to call out her name. But then a sigh emanates from the room, a clearly male sigh.

My mouth snaps shut. Hope turns to fear.

My hearts starts to pound as I debate whether to run or confront whoever has broken into the apartment. Every instinct urges me to take off, get the hell out of the apartment. But if I run, I will probably never find out who was on the other side of the door. On the other hand, if I stay, I am potentially placing myself in harm’s way. What if Eric or Vincent has returned? Worse yet, what if both men are behind the door? Even if that’s the case, this may be my only chance to find out where my friend is.

So I stay.

I step closer to the door and find it’s not completely closed. It’s slightly ajar, but the crack is far too narrow for me to peek in and see who’s on the other side.
Shit
.

Uncertain, I stand completely still and just listen.

There’s more movement in the room, someone walking around. I conclude from the single set of steps that there’s only one man in the room. Since I’ve not yet been discovered, it seems the element of surprise is on my side. Maybe I can take this guy out with my new weapon.

Emboldened, I push the door open slowly. Very, very slowly. At the same time, I raise the can of pepper spray to what I assume will be eye level for this breaking-in mofo. When there’s enough space for me to slip through, I quickly and quietly duck into the room.

Instantly, a hand, a very strong hand, covers my raised one, the one holding the spray canister. Uh-oh, I’m screwed.

Ouch
! One sharp squeeze and I drop my only weapon.

The intruder is standing behind me. How did he so quickly get from one end of the room to the other? I swear his steps sounded not anywhere near the door.

I twist my hand from the man’s grasp and start to scream, “Help—” But the man quickly covers my mouth.

From behind me, he leans down and whispers in my ear, “Settle down, Essalin.”

Huh
? This man—who happens to smell amazingly good—knows me?

Slowly, my nice-smelling assailant removes his hand from my mouth. I spin around to face him. And when I recognize the face—a face far more gorgeous than in pictures—I squeak out, “Farren?”

Holy crap
!

I quickly forget about being afraid.

Oh, my heart still pounds. But this pounding is caused from something entirely different than fear. Haven’s photos and videos did
not
do her stunning brother justice. In person, Farren Shaw is beyond stunning. He’s male perfection. From his tall, commanding stature to the way his presence fills the room, he makes the space we’re sharing feel small, very small. It’s suddenly just me and him, man and woman. I’ve never felt full-on lust like this before. I mean, I guess that’s what I’m feeling. All I know is that I’m breathless and bothered in a way that urges me to thrust out my chest, open my mouth, and arch my back. My body tells me to make myself available to this man.

Of course, I’m not crazy. My brain cuts in and keeps me from doing any of those nutty things. Still, I can’t fully escape my body’s visceral, raw, and primal reactions to Farren Shaw. Damn, the man personifies sex. No wonder I fantasized about him. But fantasies are nothing compared to the reality before me. My gaze shamelessly travels from his strong, jean-clad legs up to his wide shoulders then down his veiny, muscular arms. Damn, his biceps are bulging, straining at the short sleeves of the snug black T-shirt he’s wearing. Farren is all man, toned and hard. And now, before me, his carnal beauty slays me at his feet. I want more. I wish I could have more. My brain finally gets on board with my body and I imagine what it would feel like to writhe beneath his hard body, begging him to—

“Essalin?”

His smooth words, accompanied with a cock of the head and a knowing smirk, rein in my lust-fueled imaginings.

“Huh?” I so eloquently respond. Glancing up at his face, I find myself staring into the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen. I knew they were stunning, but
oh my
.

Farren clears his throat, and I quickly avert my gaze.

“I was just saying…” he begins.

Was he talking? Huh, I missed that.

“I’m sorry for letting myself in to the apartment,” he continues. “I should have waited for you to return, but I had no idea how long you’d be gone. In any case, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

My ire goes up a little. That’s right—Farren broke into the apartment. That’s what I tell myself, but, truthfully, I’m embarrassed he has me so flustered. To hide my carnal weakness, I lash out at the source.

“You didn’t just
let
yourself in,” I say accusingly. “You
broke
in.”