CASEY
I miss talking to Dylan. It’s as if he’s been a vital part of my days for decades, even though I’ve spent so little time with him. I ache with the need to resolve my case so I can go back to seeing him. But I still won’t let myself talk to him, and his calls have fallen off. I get on the Internet and go to the local news site to see what new things they’re saying about me that might not have been picked up on the national news cycle. Tonight I’m the lead story again on Channel 3. They’re rehashing the indictment and why it’s taking police so long to find me.
Then the anchor says, “In a related story . . . ,” and launches into the coverage of a fire at a local apartment building last night. I watch the footage to see if anyone I know lives there. I recognize the apartments. I used to drive past them on the way to work. But how are they related to my investigation?
“Fire officials say that the fire was caused by an explosion in the upstairs apartment of a local veteran who works as a private investigator. Sources told us that he’s working with police on the Brent Pace murder case . . .”
I catch my breath and stumble to my feet. Dylan? Is that where he lives?
I listen for them to say if he was injured, but somehow I’ve missed it. I back it up and play the video again, and the word explosion reverberates through my mind. I back it up again. Was Dylan killed? When did this happen? Last night? Today?
Apparently it was in the wee hours of this morning, and it says that two people were injured, including the veteran who lived there.
I stumble to my purse, grab my phone out, and click on his number. It rings until a voice says that the person I’m trying to call hasn’t set up his voice mail. I text, but get a message that it’s undeliverable.
Was the phone burned up in the fire? Is he suffering in a hospital?
I consider calling his regular phone, but I don’t know the number, and even if I had it, it could get him into terrible trouble. I dial the local hospital closest to his apartment and ask if Dylan Roberts is a patient there. They tell me he isn’t.
Tears assault me. Why did I dodge his calls for the last couple of days? I get on my e-mail, hands shaking, and type him a message.
Dylan, I just heard about the fire. Please call me. I’m praying you’re okay.
I hit Send and wait to hear back, but an hour passes, then two, and I don’t hear from him.
I’ve never felt more helpless. I have an overwhelming urge to call his friend Dex or my sister Hannah, but my better reasoning wins out and I don’t do it.
Calm down, Casey, I tell myself. Get a grip. Don’t do anything stupid. He’ll call. He has to.
I navigate to another local news station and watch their footage of the fire. I hear that the downstairs neighbor suffered severe burns, but that Dylan’s condition is unknown.
“Fire department inspectors are telling us that they do suspect foul play. We’re told that a device was thrown through the resident’s window, and its explosion caused this fire to erupt and destroy most of the building.”
I’m sick, so I run to the bathroom and sit on the floor. Someone threw a bomb through his window? It had to be Keegan or one of his partners. And they’ll try again.
Dylan probably doesn’t have either of his phones. Everything he owns was probably burned in the fire.
What if Dylan’s dead? No, he couldn’t be. They would have said that. They just said the neighbor was badly injured, not Dylan. Could it be that he escaped the blast? God, please!
I can’t stand it, so I call that number again. It still doesn’t go through.
I check my e-mail, but he hasn’t answered. I have to do something.
There’s no one I can call, but I pack my bag, check out of the motel, and head south to Louisiana. If I don’t hear from him by the time I get there, I’ll have to do something drastic.