Gone (Deadly Secrets #2)(82)
“I’ll try to call Alec,” Hunt said softer, “and give him this info too.”
“Okay.” Raegan’s heart ached all over again. She didn’t want to drag Hunt into their relationship. She’d already leaned on him too much the other day in the hospital, but she knew if Alec reached out to anyone, it would probably be him. “If you hear from him, would you tell him to call me, please?”
“Of course I will. Maybe he’s just trying to process it all.”
“Maybe.” She looked down at her feet and forced back the tears. “But I’ve texted and called him a dozen times since last night, and he’s not responding. I’m afraid—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “I just want to know that he’s okay.”
“I know you do. I’ll try to see if I can figure out where he is.”
“Thanks.” She wasn’t going to break. Not now. She had too much to do. Blinking into the sunlight again, she breathed deep. “Look, I gotta go. Call me when you know more about Gilbert’s funds.”
“Will do. Stay strong, Raegan.”
She clicked “End” and stared down at the phone. Staying strong was exactly what she planned to do.
Right after she found Miriam Kasdan’s number and set up a meeting.
Every inch of Alec’s body hurt, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. A blinding, burning ache that consumed every muscle.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth as he sat on the barstool in the dimly lit dive bar he’d wandered into an hour ago and stared at the shot of whiskey in his hand. He’d had every intention of going home with Raegan last night. Of doing what she did every damn day and being resilient, but as soon as he’d heard those agents talking about that shoe, he hadn’t been able to move.
It had been black from the earth when they’d pulled it out of the ground. A tiny toddler Converse tennis shoe. None of the agents could tell what size it was, and they couldn’t even agree on what color the shoe had originally been, but all Alec had been able to think about was the fact that Emma had been wearing a pair of white Converse shoes the day he’d taken her to that park. From that moment on he hadn’t been able to do anything but stand and watch, waiting to see if they pulled anything else that belonged to his daughter out of that pit.
He swirled the amber liquid in the shot glass and watched it stick to the sides and gradually peel away. An image filled his head of skin peeling away from bone as it decomposes.
Sickness rolled through his stomach, threatening to come up. Fighting it and the image back, he breathed through his nose until the nausea eased. But the pain was still there, pummeling his chest like a prizefighter attacking a speed bag. The sight of that grave, the bones, the snow, that shoe . . . all of it flashed behind his eyelids again and again until he wanted to scream.
That was how he’d ended up in this bar instead of going to Raegan’s apartment. As he’d driven back into the city this morning, the pain had been so unbearable he’d had to pull over. And before he’d realized what he was doing, he was sitting on this barstool, staring at this drink.
His cell on the bar next to him buzzed, and he glanced down to see Hunt’s name on the screen.
Shit, Hunt had probably heard the news from Raegan by now. Alec knew she had to be wondering where the hell he was and why he hadn’t come home yet, but he couldn’t face her until he pulled himself together. What was he going to tell her? He didn’t have any answers for her yet, and every time he remembered the panicked sob in her voice when those agents had taken her away from the scene last night, that pain in the middle of his chest intensified until it hurt to even breathe.
He looked back at his whiskey. One drink. He could have one drink to take the edge off, kill a little of this pain and numb him out. Then he’d have the strength to face Raegan and Hunt and his siblings and parents—all the people he knew would inevitably be phoning next.
He lifted the shot from the bar and had a memory flash of Raegan standing in the middle of that muddy road after they’d gone to see Charlene, looking up at him with soft, loving green eyes as she said, “I never thought you were like him.”
Just as quickly, that memory was followed by another. Of Gilbert hollering when Alec had been about ten to get him his “drink.” Of Alec going into the filthy kitchen in that trailer they’d lived in with Charlene. Of pushing aside dirty dishes and climbing onto the counter to find the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Of staring at it and wondering what about the amber liquid was so appealing. Of pulling off the cap and taking a long swallow that burned a path of fire to his gut and made him cough. Of Gilbert laughing maniacally from the doorway and sneering, “That’s right, boy. You’re no better’n me, you little shit.”
He stared at the whiskey in his glass, remembering how the Jack Daniel’s had settled like a lump of coal in his belly that day. How he’d wanted to puke it all back up. How he’d swallowed another mouthful just to spite the man. And how he’d felt ten minutes later. Like he no longer gave a shit about anything Gilbert said or did.
That had been the start of a lifelong addiction he was still battling. Yes, the alcohol numbed the pain, but it never got rid of it completely. When the buzz wore off, when his eyes cleared, it was all still there. Alcohol hadn’t fixed things for Gilbert, had it? It hadn’t done anything but turn the man into a mean son of a bitch, one Alec never wanted to be like.