He gave me air, for that small moment. Once he left, I’d be holding my breath until he returned, and I knew the process would repeat over and over again until he found my sister.
I wanted to pull him back down. I wanted to stall him and keep him with me a moment longer, but I didn’t. I sat there as he turned and left.
I could hear conversation a beat later, then a door shut. It wasn’t long before one of the guards cleared his throat outside the room, the door still closed between us.
“Miss Emma?”
“Drake?”
“Just letting you know Peter and I are here. Michael went with Mr.—he went with Carter.”
The lump doubled in size, but I called back as if it weren’t there, “Thank you, Drake.”
Michael. Peter. Drake. Carter. Me.
That was all that was left.
Carter returned in the morning, but he hadn’t found her. The next day was the same. Then the third day. The fourth. Fifth. The days blended into a week, then into the second week. All the same results. Nothing. They couldn’t find Andrea.
The next few weeks felt like we were living in an alternate universe. There were no friends to spend time with. There were no paparazzi in hiding because we were in hiding. No one knew where we were. No wine nights. No gun range nights. No nights at the club. Even the guards—we all protected each other. Carter kept looking for Andrea, and as the weeks progressed, a routine started for us.
Peter and Drake would go out during the day. Their job was to gather information, so they followed the Bartels like ghosts, wherever they went. They identified all the men who worked for them. They figured out all of their schedules for each day of the week.
Each night when they returned, they’d meet with Carter and Michael. Sometimes I joined the meeting. Other times I couldn’t stomach more bad news. They never seemed to get any closer. Then, after the meeting, Carter would leave. Most times he went alone. Sometimes he took Michael with him, but every time he came back, he was covered in blood.
When he came home, sometimes in the middle of the night and other times in the early morning, he walked past me in the bedroom, stripping off his clothes. He always left them in a pile and spent an hour in the shower.
In the beginning, I got in with him. He’d stand there, letting the shower rain down on him with his head bent, his eyes closed, and his hands clenched as the blood ran off him. Even after I’d cleaned him, he would remain in there.
Then I realized he was remembering everything he’d done. He was, in a way, washing away what he had done as he let that water rain down on him. So I began leaving him alone. As he showered, I gathered up his clothes and washed them. Carter never spoke of it. All he would say, later in the morning, was that he’d cleaned out another area the Bartel family controlled. That was all. No one asked, but we all knew.
The Cold Killer had returned.
Carter was killing men, and he was doing it alone. I could only assume he had Michael go with him if there was too much danger, if he needed backup for certain places.
The news was on in the kitchen when my sister was declared missing. Carter had returned a couple of hours earlier, and Drake was making toast as we all sat down at the table for breakfast. Michael brewed the coffee, Peter had grabbed a newspaper, and I made the eggs.
“Breaking news today. Andrea Nathans, daughter of prominent hotelier Edward Nathans and his wife, Cherise, has been declared missing. The police issued a statement not long ago that she was last seen in New York City where she went to reunite with a long lost sister. Andrea Nathans is twenty-six years old and described as slender, with brown hair and brown eyes. She is a known marathon runner. As more details are released, we’ll be updating you with the latest.”
The anchor turned to her cohost, and they began chatting about my sister. Was there more information? Did the police know anything? Were they sharing that information with the public? When and where was she last seen? They kept discussing Andrea, but they had no more information than what they’d already shared.
Then the pictures started.
The first image showed her alone. She smiled at the camera with her hand reaching out to the photographer. A second was of her in a graduation gown, and a third with a group of friends. Their faces were blurred out, but she leaned over with them, drinks in their hands. In the fourth picture, she was standing with a couple. The other faces were again blurred, but she looked so happy.
Those were her parents. I could tell.
She looked loved. She was loved. I could see it in her eyes.
Carter’s phone jarred me. Its ring was loud and harsh, but I realized I hadn’t heard it for a long time. As he answered it and headed to the back for privacy, I frowned. He must’ve been in contact with others, but he never talked about the life we’d all left behind to hide.
When he came back, he looked at me for a moment. No words were shared, but I knew he was leaving again. He grimaced as he glanced at Michael. “That was Cole. He needs to meet.”
Immediately, Michael and Peter reached for their guns and checked whether their clips were full. Drake did the same, but Carter stopped him. “No, Drake. You need to stay with Emma.”
“You sure?”
Carter nodded. “Yeah. This is just business. I’ve been watching the news, but nothing’s been leaked about the Bartel losses. I’m assuming Cole’s been getting in there to clean up after me.” He pointed at the television screen. “It’s about that. The police know Andrea was here to see Emma. They found the last restaurant she visited.” He gazed at me again. “There’s footage.”