Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Had I? The unanswered question is killing me.
Jillian doesn't know where he is either. He hasn't called her or responded to her texts. She didn't verbalize it, but I could feel the weight of her blame. This was exactly what she warned me of and, for the first time, I deserve every bit of her scorn.
Together, we agreed not to call the police. To just wait and hope for him to surface. She's monitoring his credit cards and bank accounts, and sooner or later, he’ll use one.
He has to.
Chapter 69
At four in the morning, I wake with an idea. Rolling onto my back, I stare at the coffered ceiling as the pieces of a plan slowly click into place. As soon as a hint of light coats the walls, I sit up and reach for my phone. I consider calling Don, then decide on Marcus instead.
I dial his number and stand, moving to the large glass doors at the edge of the room and look out over the morning view. At this time in the morning, the water begins to glow amber and pink, with fog hanging over the water like a blanket of cotton balls. The view is incredible and one that I typically sleep through, and Brant always enjoys a cup of coffee in hand.
“Hello?”
I pull open the door and inhale the crisp cool air. “This is Layana. Are you busy?"
“I'm sleeping.” He doesn’t sound asleep. He sounds annoyed, but I don’t care. Right now, Brant’s safety trumps his sleep.
"I'm coming to you. Text me your address."
"Is this about Molly?"
Molly? I hadn’t thought about her in months. “Text me your address.” I hang up the phone and shove my feet into a pair of wool-lined boots. I move quickly through the halls to my office, where I steal a piece of paper from my printer, grab a gold Le Blanc pen from the desk, and pull open the second drawer of the left cabinet. Withdrawing the appropriate folders, I sit down at the desk and write down a list of details in my neat block font—a carryover from my prep school days. Folding the paper into quarters, I stand and push it into the pocket of my cashmere drawstring sleeping pants.
Taking the elevator down, I step into the cavernous garage. Lights automatically warm the space, highlighting the glossy hoods in rapid succession. Vintages beside luxuries beside exotics. My phone chimes with Marcus's address at the same time that I press the button and open the third garage bay.
Marcus had been the one who’d gotten rid of Molly. Hopefully, he could help me find Brant.
Marcus answers the door wearing only plaid blue pajama bottoms, and the view of chiseled abs does absolutely nothing for me. I move into his ranch-style home, beeline for the tiny kitchen and slap a piece of paper on the counter.
"This is what I need." I explain the plan, then dial a number on my cell phone and hold it out toward him. "Call them."
He studies the page, then looks at me. "A phone call? That's it? For a thousand bucks?"
I shrug. "It's five am. I figure I owe you graveyard rates. But you have to sell it. Otherwise…”
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” He sighs and starts the call.
"Put it on speaker," I whisper.
He obliges but glares at me while he does it.
"Eurowatch Assistance, how may I help you?” Of course, the female voice carries the haughty British accent I’d come to expect when dealing with the English car brand.
Marcus clears his throat. “Hello. My name is Brant Sharp, and I’m afraid I need help in locating my car.”
"Certainly, Mr. Sharp. May I ask, is this a theft?”
I hadn’t prepped him for that question and shake my head, but he is already ahead of me, his mouth curving into a smile as he delivers a wry chuckle that sounds very convincing. “No, nothing like that. I’m afraid I’ve just lost track of it.”
“I understand. To begin, I will need to ask you a series of security questions to verify your identity. It’s for your own protection.”
"Go ahead.” Marcus leans back against his kitchen counter and holds the paper in front of him, his attention on the details I’ve written there.
"What is the VIN of the car you would like to track?"
“J2R43L2KS14JD799F," he recites.
"Please hold while I pull up your profile." A series of keystrokes clicks through the speaker.
I exhale, hoping I have enough information. I had copied all of the details on the car’s purchase from the file, as well as his personal identification items. I can't imagine that Aston Martin knows much more than what was presented at the time of purchase.
"Mr. Sharp, may I have your address please?"
“My current address is 23 Ocean's Bluff Drive."
"And your driver's license number?"
There are three more questions and Marcus passes each of them with flying colors. We both let out a breath when the woman moves on.