no turning back

• forty eight •

gladys

The woman seated behind the desk at the police station arched a brow at me. I offered an awkward smile, my heart pounding in my chest. Why is she looking at me like that? Did I say something stupid? Does she know I'm a wanted person? Oh, god, I'm going to jail.

"You said from the ice cream parlor in town square?" she said.

I nodded, my gaze briefly darting to Brant beside me. "We were waiting on him to come back and get us, so we stepped out to take a walk. By the time we circled back around, our car was there, running, with no one around."

"And you decided to get in the car and drive off, instead of calling the police?" The doubt in her question nearly threw me off, but I persisted.

"We didn't know what happened. I still don't understand where he is. We drove around looking for him, but he was nowhere. I didn't know what to do, and the logical answer seemed to report it to the authorities."

She wet her lips and sat back in her chair. Suspicion flared in her eyes as they flicked to Brant, who, to his credit, didn't so much as blink. "Why don't you two take a seat and I'll have a detective come out in a moment?"

I swallowed hard, fighting to keep my composure, and nodded. Brant and I took two seats in the sparsely populated lobby. He surveyed the other people seated there—an elderly woman and a middle-aged couple. The wife seemed to be crying and the husband rubbed her back, whispering into her ear.

"It's going to be fine," Brant spoke softly.

My eyes brushed the floor under my scuffed tennis shoes. I couldn't acknowledge his attempt to comfort me; I didn't know if it would be. The police weren't jumping at the bit to take us seriously, and who knew what condition he would be in by the time we found him. If we found him.

No. You will find him, I reminded myself. You can't give up on him. Not again.

He wasn't a good man, but he was mine and I would rather suffer every moment until we were together than leave him again. I shivered under the force of the determination and doubt battling within me.

"Mrs. Zare?"

My head snapped up, my gaze locking with a pair of gunmetal gray eyes enshrouded by bushy gray brows and deep wrinkles. I briefly took in his trousers, button-up shirt, and the badge around his neck.

"Hi," I said, rising to my feet. Brant rose beside me and the detective's eyes flickered between us.

"I'm Detective Milford," he told me, and extended a hand that Brant and I both shook. He leveled Brant's placid expression. "And you are . . . ?"

"Brant," he offered plainly.

"What's your relationship to Elijah?"

"I'm his employee and a personal acquaintance."

The detective hummed. "Follow me, please."

He led us to what appeared to be an unmarked interrogation room, judging by the sterile metal table and chairs and a suspiciously large mirror that spanned one wall. I shivered again, this time from the coolness of the room.