King’s (The King Trilogy #1)(4)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

I drew my curtains to shut out the sunlight and looked at my watch. Two ten in the afternoon. I’d only been gone one day, but it seemed like a lifetime ago.

I sank down on the couch and covered my face with my cold, cold hands. Shit. I had to tell someone. Especially after those bastards threatened me in the hotel room. But who could I go to? My parents? Telling them that Justin was missing would only cause them pain. And knowing my dad, stubborn man that he was, he’d be on the first plane to Mexico. I couldn’t allow that. I couldn’t let him get mixed up in whatever crap was going on. Involving my friends, especially Becca, wasn’t an option either. She adored Justin, and it would break her heart. She also never kept anything from her mother, and her mother couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. My mother would be freaking out on my doorstep within the hour.

Shit. I had no idea what to do, and I needed help. Maybe the State Department or the FBI or…

My phone vibrated, and I slipped it from my jeans pocket. I had a message from a number in Mexico. It was over three hours old. I must’ve missed it while on the plane.

I held the phone to my ear. “Hello, Mia. This is Jamie Henshaw. I received your message this morning and had expected to see you today. I hope everything is all right?” It’s strange how some people have the ability to say one thing but mean the opposite. “Please, call me when you get this. I have some news about your brother.”

I dialed her and began pacing the floor. Please be good news. Please be good news. Please be—

She answered immediately.

“This is Mia Turner. I got your message.”

“Mia. Ah, yes.” There was some crackling in the background.

More crackers? Bitch.

“Are you still planning to come by the embassy today?” Once again, her tone sounded snide and flippant, as if she hoped I wouldn’t ever darken her doorstep.

“No,” I replied. “Something came up. I had to fly home this morning. I just got in.”

“Oh, I see.” Happy. She was happy. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I think your time would have been wasted either way. We received confirmation that your brother was not present during the incident.”

“Sorry?”

“The police questioned a few locals who knew your brother. They said he’d left several days earlier.”

My heart raced with joy. Justin wasn’t taken. Justin wasn’t taken.

“So where is he?”

“The authorities say he took a flight to London.”

London? But Justin would have called. Or emailed. Or something. More bullshit.

“Are you sure? Did the police talk to his roommate?” I knew that Justin shared an apartment with some American guy, but I didn’t know who he was.

“I assume so, but I don’t know for sure.”

Wouldn’t that be an important question for her to ask the police? And now that I started to think about it, wasn’t this a bit of a coincidence? I went to Mexico to find out what happened to Justin and was run out of the country. Then, all of a sudden, I’m being told he’s gone somewhere else? I was being led away. Why?

“Can I have the date and flight number?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have that information. But if you want to find your brother, I suggest you start in London. And if you do track him down, please have him contact us. The local authorities want to question him. His team is still missing, and there’s been no demand for a ransom.”

I covered my mouth. Their poor families. “But how do I—”

The called ended abruptly.

“What in the world?” I stared at the phone, thinking that I’d just been served another helping of BS from that lady. If Justin had left Mexico, which I absolutely didn’t believe, why wouldn’t he have called me? And it’s not like he’d just up and leave work. This archaeological dig was a big, big deal, and Justin had to answer to the foundation that funded the dig. There was no way he’d blow everything off. And if he had left, he would have checked in, and he’d know by now that something happened to his team. He’d be right back in Mexico, worried sick.

All signs pointed to something bad having happened to Justin, yet I couldn’t let go of the unrealistic hope that he might be all right and that this was all some horrible misunderstanding.

I sank back down on my couch and smoothed my hands over my tangled curls. “Crap.” I blew out a long breath. Okay. If Justin got on a plane, there would be a record. So who could help me find it?

The next day, after calling several airlines and being told there was no way in hell I’d be getting a hold of any flight records, I decided my best bet was the local FBI office. I’d never been inside, but had walked past it a million times. It was a 1920s-style brick building with a large marble lobby. Once past the metal detectors, I was directed to a room with a long line, where I waited for over four hours only to be told that no one could help me. If my brother was missing, I’d have to file a report with the police. When I explained he was out of the country, the man told me to file a report with the local police, then contact the nearest embassy or consulate.

“But I just need to know if he flew to the U.K.,” I argued.

The agent, Agent Screwyou, who wore a shitty brown tie that matched the shitty brown frames of his thick glasses, made it clear that his patience had worn thin. “If your brother got on a plane to the U.K., then it sounds to me like he’s fine. Missing, kidnapped, and dead people generally don’t board planes.”

Smartass. “But—”

“Go hire a private detective. We can’t help you.” He leaned to the side and called for the next person.

Asshole. I headed straight for the door and slipped out my phone. Shit, Mia, what are you going to do now?

A frigid gust tunneled between the skyscrapers through the downtown street, lashing everyone with its unwelcome chill. I walked over to a barista cart and ordered a black coffee to fit my mood and the weather. San Francisco was generally cool all year round, but when we got wind, we got wind. When we got rain, we got rain. And today, the dark gray sky threatened to unleash a fury of wetness. I instantly regretted my choice of wardrobe—a pair of red Manolo heels, a black skirt, and button-down white blouse—unfit for any severe weather. I buttoned up my camel-hair coat and sipped my hot coffee while I checked my emails on my phone. There were ten from my boss, three from Becca, and a hundred others. I’d only been out of the office three days, but the work had piled up.