Uncovering Hope (Uncovering Love Book 3) (30 page)

“My brother’s name is Scott Brooks.” Scott Brooks, Scott Brooks, I rack my mind but come up empty.

“When I went to Loyola for medical school, he came out here to start law school at ASU.” I nod and keep my face neutral despite the stinging pain in my palm. I pray he keeps talking, buying me time.

“Scott and your husband—or should I say ex-husband?—became fast friends when your ex started providing him with study aids . . . of the pharmaceutical variety.” My gut clenches. Whatever comes next can’t be good. Anything Josh and his addiction touches is singed with greed, malice, and evil.

“Your ex came up with a brilliant idea to start selling to the entire student body, using my brother as his mule. Of course, their plan was fucked from the start. Law students? Should’ve picked a better crowd.” He laughs but the sound holds no joy, only anger.

“Scott’s activities were reported and my brother was kicked out of the program. And with that my parents cut him off financially. So he did what he had to do and started selling full time, working for your ex.” He stops pacing and cocks his head to study my face. “But you already know this.”

“I don’t. I’m sorry Josh did this. I know how badly drugs and addiction can change a person. Ruin lives. I’m sorry he caused pain for you and your family. I never knew your brother—”

“Wrong. Fucking. Answer.” He steps close and I lean back to meet his menacing glare. He grips my chin in his hand and fear fills my entire being. He lifts the blade to my throat. I try to stay strong, defiant, brave, but my body shakes with anxiety.

“I could kill you. You know that? I should kill you. For what you did to my family.”

“Please. Please, Garrett.” Wetness drips down my neck. The blade moves swiftly. I don’t even feel the pain.

“Please what? Please don’t murder you like you and your husband murdered my brother?”

I gasp.
What?
“Your brother’s dead? God, I’m so sorry, Garrett. I’m sorry for your loss.”

He swears and throws the blade across the room. Garrett resumes his wild pacing and I glance down. My skin prickles and a steady stream of blood pools at the top of my scrubs, slowly seeping into the fabric in a wayward pattern.

“You didn’t know? I was sure you were in on it, what with the gun. I saw you leave with it. I tried to follow you. I tried to find evidence. Why, Carly, why? Why would you help such a monster? Why did you stay! Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“The gun,” I whisper, and catch Garrett’s attention. “The gun? That’s what you’re after?”

“Yes! I tried going to the police! They wouldn’t believe me! I just wanted my brother back. That’s why I came.” I try to understand but my head feels a little light.

“I flew to Arizona. Four years ago. I had a two week break from school. My parents forbade me, but I lied, said I was meeting friends in Puerto Vallarta.” His pacing gains speed and his hands jerk at his sides.

“I promised my brother we would get him out. Get him clean. We talked every day. I should have come sooner. I didn’t think it was so bad. I thought it would be simple. I’d pick him up and check him into rehab. Make things right with our family.”

He stops and his eyes narrow at a space on the wall above my head. “When I landed in Phoenix, he wouldn’t pick up his cell. I tracked him down to his apartment. He didn’t even look like my brother. Skin and bones and at least ten years older. I said ‘Let’s go, Scott. I’m here now. Everything will be okay. Let’s get you clean.’

“He talked to me in circles, saying he’d go tomorrow, that he just wanted to sleep first, to hang out together, I just got there so why the rush—excuse after fucking excuse, and I finally realized he wouldn’t go willingly. He asked me for money. Said he’d check himself in after a few more days. Fuck!” Garrett’s eyes snap to mine. I try to hold his gaze, I do, but my head rolls to the side, too heavy for my muscles to hold up.

“I left when your husband showed up. They had some business to discuss. I didn’t want any part in that. But I watched from my rental car and followed behind. I followed them all damn night!

“And at the last stop—some alleyway off Roosevelt—I parked down the street to wait. I heard the shots. I followed my brother’s car back to his apartment, but only your husband got out of the driver’s side. I knew. Maybe a twin thing?” Garrett’s eyes fill with tears and he drops to the edge of the bed.

“I followed your husband back to your house. I saw you leave that night. I followed you as you drove all around town. You were baiting me! Keeping me at a distance so he could hide the body! That’s what you did! You had me on some goddamn wild goose chase!” My eyes flutter shut. Oh, God, it feels so good to give in to the darkness. The rumble of a passing vehicle pulls me back.

“You!” He shouts in my face. “You’re the reason I had to file some missing person report! You’re the reason they never found his body or a gun! You thought I’d give up? Go home with my tail between my legs? Pretend I didn’t know you killed my brother!” His shouts fill my ears and I watch the anger turn to rage on his face. He grabs my shoulders and shakes so hard it makes my head snap.

He’s going to kill me. I know he is.

“JUST OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR
.” We’re standing outside of Dr. Brooks’ Arcadia district apartment. The old brick building houses maybe a dozen units. Thanks to Jon’s hookups with the PD we were able to gain this address. Hospital security was not giving us a damn thing but red tape.

“I can’t do that. It’s illegal,” Jon mutters. He gives it another round of knocks.

“What if it was Kate?” I say and have to jump back as Jon slams his shoulder into the wooden door. It cracks.
Fuck.
That had to hurt. The handle juts out at a strange angle. One more shove of his body and we’re in.

Empty. I look around and nothing seems strange or out of place, merely sterile if anything. It’s quiet inside. Too damn quiet. Jon takes off down the hallway. His feet pad in a stealthy, silent movement.

God damn it, Carly, where are you?

I pace the living room and kitchen. One leather sofa, a flat screen on the wall, and a glass coffee table with one universal remote. No artwork. No photos or knickknacks here. There’s nothing to tell me where Carly is. Whether he even took her. Nothing seems out of place. Even all six coffee mugs are perfectly lined up with handles turned at the exact same angle.

“Kinda sparse, isn’t it?” Jon calls from down the hall.

“I don’t think he’s lived here that long.” I wander down the hall where there are a few photos on the wall. One of a much younger Dr. Brooks, arm around the shoulder of a teen who could pass for his twin. A black and white of a couple—parents, grandparents maybe? The last print of a smiling Brooks leaning against his BMW.

“Cliché prick,” I mutter to myself. Jon’s in the bedroom rifling through every single item in the room. His movements are both unhurried and quick, taking far too much care to leave the room just as it was. “Dude, just dump the fucking drawers out on the bed,” I say. Jon’s gaze lifts to mine.

“Except, what if he didn’t take her? We aren’t supposed to be here, man. Discretion is the name of the game.” He shakes his head and resumes going through the doctor’s undie drawer. They’re organized by color and rolled up, one by one, with the band lettering facing the same direction. Dude. Even his boxers are pretentious.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and check the spare room?” Jon says absently. I trudge over and try the handle. Doesn’t turn.

“It’s locked, man,” I call over my shoulder. “You wanna bust it open?”

“Why don’t you just pick the lock?” He calls back.

I laugh and try to mimic the way Jon shoved his shoulder into the jam. Ouch. That’s gonna bruise. “Dude, I’m not a badass like you. I don’t know how to pick locks!” I shout. I squat down so my eye is level with the knob.

“Check on top of the door moldings for one of those tiny key things,” Jon suggests. He blows out a frustrated breath as he stomps into the hall and runs his fingers over the doorways.

“Uh, problem here. Not that kinda lock.”

“Huh?”

“It requires an actual key. Why the fuck would—” I fall back on my heels as Jon barrels full force at the door and busts it right off the hinges.

“Discreet, eh?” I say, and stand back up.

“Shit,” he mutters. Jon’s frame fills the doorway but when he steps inside, the sight before me brings nothing but terror and the fear of losing Carly. Dim light peaks through the closed blinds, but it’s clear the walls are covered, every square inch, in photographs and newspaper clippings. Jon flips the light on illuminating hundreds of Carly. Photos of my girl.

“Jon. I swear to God, if we find her and it’s too late—”

“We’ll find her.”

“How do you know?” I tap a nervous rhythm over the fabric of my jeans, using my casted fingers as the bass beat. The pictures on the wall mock. Taunt. I should’ve known something wasn’t right. Known it was more than just her ex. I should've never left for my tour last month.

“Fuck this!” I stomp out of the room before I do something stupid and irrational, like peel every fucking image off this cocksucker’s wall. He doesn’t deserve to have her goodness smeared all over his home.

I reach the kitchen and slam my cast down onto the kitchen counter. It rattles the basket of mail.
Fuck!
Pain pulses through every nerve ending in my fractured and bruised hand. That hurt. God damn. If he hurts her . . . No. I will not think that way. We will find her. My eyes flit over to the letters. I pick them up and sift through. Bills. Electric. Gas. Water. Storage Unit. What the—

“Jon! Get out here, man!” My fingers shake and I slide one beneath the paper flap. The creak of the floorboards don’t distract me from unfolding the bill. I scan the contents. Monthly rental fee. An address screams from the paper. Unit number in black printed ink. The paper disappears from my hands.

“Good work. Let’s go,” Jon barks, and waves the bill toward the door. I push off the counter and follow his racing steps back out to the truck.

Please . . . I glance at the sky above. Dark clouds swirl and steal the bright moon. Please, help me find her. I offer up my silent plea.

I’m coming for you Carly. I’m coming for you.

“Can I help you?” The man behind the counter glances up from his tablet to study our approaching forms. His polite smile falls. Jon reaches in his back pocket and produces his wallet, flipping it open for the attendant and then snapping it shut.

“United States Army. Special Ops. We have reason to believe a woman is being held against her will in one of your units. She’s in grave danger,” Jon barks, and even I have to resist the urge to not piss myself. The worker’s eyes bounce between me and Jon.

“Are there any other entry points to the units besides the outdoor access?” Jon had circled the building before we burst in this lobby. I’d wanted to go straight to the door, Unit 5A, and bash it in—or rather, have Jon do the bashing—but he wanted to take Brooks by surprise. He insisted we were entering a dangerous situation; we needed a plan. I just needed Carly.

“Uh . . . Yeah. Through that hallway. But it’s for employee access only.” Jon leans forward, braces his hands on the ledge of the counter and glares. “Sorry, sir,” the employee amends.