Page 75

Fuck if I care. All that matters is Sky.

Liska turns a hotel conference room into a command center. We have personal and team computers downloading links to security footage. I’m on the verge of hysterics. If I laugh or cry, I won’t stop, and would instead be curling up into a ball waiting for Sky.

I foolishly told Sky I’d whisk him away from any danger as if I possess magical powers or have any business comparing myself to an immortal horse. My nickname is a lie, and I can’t keep him safe. I’ll give every cent I own to bring him back to me and glimpse his tattoo as he dances around me, laughing and full of life.

This is not my real life.

I’m a boring people-pleaser from Illinois who happens to be good at hockey.

Logan has been to the house, but neither Sky nor Maria answered the door or the phone. He tried to get a wellness check from emergency services, but there’s no actual evidence of foul play and a few hours out of contact isn’t suspicious.

My mom calls, and since it’s a distraction, I answer.

“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately.

I robotically recite everything and wait for her ridicule. “Technically, he’s not missing or injured, so we have to wait,” I answer her question, and she believes me, and I’m grateful for her support.

“I won’t keep you. Call me when you get news.”

I agree and hang up because it’s the only way to deal with this.

“Here ve go.” Liska projects footage onto the large screen. Sky’s driving and stops in front of the restaurant to let Maria out, help her inside, and then drives away. “Time stamp?”

We piece together Sky texted me while he was walking hurriedly into the restaurant, and not a minute later he texted me his safe word.

There are several camera angles from the restaurant, the adjacent buildings, and across the street. None of them catch a suspicious person lurking around until…

Sky flies out of the restaurant and returns minutes later with the car. He helps Maria into the passenger seat, but before he pulls away, a man slips into the backseat. His hat is pulled low and his collar turned up, shielding his face. From the video, he looks taller than Sky, with a fair skin tone but no other distinguishing characteristics. The room erupts with theories about his identity.

Liska’s on his phone, speaking rapidly in Czech.

Brant and King guide me to a chair and prop me up.

“Sky has to be okay,” I hear myself say.

Liska guarantees me his friends will be at the brownstone within the hour to check on Sky and Maria.

“Who were they meeting?” Mr. Dimon asks from the corner of the room.

I give a bullet-point explanation of Maria’s family estrangement and her nephew finding her out of nowhere.

“Who do you think is the target: Sky, Maria, or you?” Mr. Dimon asks, detached.

“Me?” I flinch.

“This happened while you’re away, so it could be a coincidence or not. We have to assess this logically, and the most common motives for committing a crime are money, love, or drugs.”

“Fuck. None of those make sense. Sky has money, but so do most of the people in this room. He’s not into drugs, and Maria is…old,” I say lamely. I’ll never forgive myself if this is my fault.

“Until we have more facts, I suggest you act normal. Don’t give away something is wrong. Text him again, and hopefully he’ll give you more clues.”

“Shit, I’m fucking this up.” My phone swims in my vision, and O’Keefe squats in my personal space.

He holds my screen to my face to unlock it. “Tell me what to type.”

“I can do it,” I say, taking my cell and responding. Saying texts out loud sounds dumb as hell.

Me: Two goals and an assist!