His Missing Wife by Jaime Hendricks (nice books to read .TXT) 📕

were red-framed pictures of zebras and cheetahs on the walls. All her tchotchkes were either red or gold or leopard, from her pens and penholder to the small pillow on her chair that she used to support her back after sitting for most of the day.

She stared him up and down, tapping a pen against a notepad on her desk. “So, what happened? What did Trey say?” Her dark eyes glowed. Her perfume hung in the air like she’d just sprayed on a second coat.

James shrugged, deciding to play it off like it was his idea. “I asked for the rest of the day. He told me to go home now and sort it out. So that’s what I’m doing.” He purposely left out the part about how Rosita was suddenly in charge of his project, even though he was sure that it’d be discussed between the two of them the second he left.

Those lips pressed together, and she nodded, attempting to look sympathetic. “I’m sure everything will be fine, sweetie.”

He hated when she called him that. It was beyond inappropriate, especially now. “I forgot my bagel.”

Such a stupid thing to say, but he wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. He not only wanted to search online for the soon-to-be-released article, but he wanted to snoop in his house, in case there was something about Tessa that he’d missed. What he didn’t want to do was stay in that office and ask what he’d been dying to know—why Rosita was at the bank early this morning, and why she’d lied to him about it. He didn’t want to bully her—asked and answered twice already—but he was going to get to the bottom of it, one way or another.

He went back to his office and grabbed his cup, no doubt holding lukewarm coffee, took his bag with the bagel off his desk, and left. Like a heat-seeking missile, he sped out of the office with the intent to try to figure out who the fuck Tessa really was.

Of course, he was stopped in the parking lot.

“James? Where are you going?”

Fuck. It was Andy. James turned around.

“Hey, Andy. Where’s Kyle?”

Andy pressed his lips together in disappointment. “Sick kid, he hit the road back home pretty early. His wife had a meeting she couldn’t miss at work, so he has to deal with the doctor and all that stuff today. You have kids?”

“No, no kids.” James began to perspire, and he knew he looked flushed, but he had to keep it together for his prospective client. “I’m sorry, man, but I’m not going to be in the meeting today either. My wife—she—something happened. I’ve really got to go.”

Andy held onto his arm. “Is everything okay?”

What was James supposed to say? He went for sympathy. “I don’t know. She’s missing. She wasn’t home when I got home last night. I have to work with the cops today.”

“The cops? Jesus. Does this have anything to do with the blood I saw on your shirt last night?”

Andy’s expression told James that he was already playing judge, jury, and executioner. It’s always the husband. It took all of James’s grit not to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business. “I told you I get nosebleeds.”

“I see.” He held out a hand for a shake and raised his eyebrows. “Well, I suppose I’ll deal with Rosita. Kyle and I spoke at length last night after we left you guys at the bar. We’re impressed with your terms. Maybe we’ll see you next week, then?”

James shook his hand and nodded. “Great. You’re in good hands with Rosita.” He tried really hard to unclench his jaw. “I’ll see you next week.”

8

Tessa

Damon brings me a glass of Merlot, drops a menu, and then disappears in the back. It reminds me of that stupid, cliché phrase I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave.

I peruse the menu, wondering if I should try to get a job in a place like this. Waitressing or bartending for quick cash sure beats chasing realtors and builders to try to get them to use me to stage open houses. I never graduated from high school, and I lied in the past telling people I attended RISD for design. Still, I think I have a knack for decorating. Maybe I really can try to set something up here. Make up a business name, pay a fee, and advertise. Sweet talk my way into getting one client and use them as a reference to get more. I mean, really, how many people ask for school credentials? Sure, doctors and lawyers hang their diplomas on the wall, but how many diplomas does anyone see for a writer or a coffee shop owner or a personal trainer? I can just pay twenty bucks for business cards online and no one would be the wiser.

People always assume the best in others. I take this to another level.

When Foster Father Number Whatever, probably Three, favored me over the others, I assumed it was because he wanted to help me. I’d get the clean clothes while others had to trade to be seen in different outfits. I’d get the non-moldy parts of the bread. I got a fiver when he handed everyone else a single dollar. I got to get repeatedly raped while he left the others alone. He told me it was because I was his favorite. At fourteen, I was too young to know the scope of the abuse. At the time, I felt better knowing I was eating well while the others fought over a bag of cheesy poofs. Survival of the fittest. He abused me out of love.

Then Denise came into the house. She became his new favorite. Out of nowhere, my bread was green—when I was allowed to eat. One time, eating the leftover pieces of whatever they could find that they called dinner, when I asked for more, my foster dad hit me in