Jake leaned closer and whispered in my ear. “Time to go.”
I didn’t wait to be told twice and took the lead out of the shop. We didn’t stop our clipped pace until we reached Jake’s bike. We tore out of there, my body pressed tightly to his, my arms wrapped around his waist.
Only two drivers and the other one had been sick for a while. I was willing to bet his sick time amounted to the same number of days Stephen had been missing. And he was either driving the van, or he’d been told to sit on the sidelines while they used his ride for other purposes.
My mind whirled with possibilities. How could we find out more? Was there a way to get a hold of Lucciola’s employee ledgers to find out the driver’s address? Or maybe we just needed the other van’s license plate, then the cops could put an ATL out for it. I wished I could ring Tom to ask him. Or maybe Jake had his own connections. I really hoped so.
My heart pounded against my chest, and I wondered if Jake could feel it as I reclined against him. Damn, my blood hadn’t pumped this fast in a long time, and I didn’t like how alive it made me feel.
Chapter 32
Jake took a turn in the opposite direction of The Hill.
“Hey, where are we going?” I yelled over the sounds of traffic.
“Going to see someone who might be able to help us,” he yelled back. “You can call your friend when we get there.”
Part of me wanted to protest, but the other part, the one that seemed to be an adrenaline junkie, was okay with it, especially when Jake twisted the throttle, and we sped down the street going faster than allowed. The wind blew cool and pierced through my blue jeans, sending a shiver up my spine.
Fifteen minutes later, we found ourselves in the Central West End area, specifically in the historic district on Westmoreland Place, a private community with grand homes built as far back as the 1800s. Who did Jake know around here who could help us? My confusion grew when he pulled up to one of the biggest mansions on the street and parked in the front.
We got off of the bike, and I blinked up at the house from the sidewalk. The place was simply beautiful. It had an elegant architecture for which I had no name, though it certainly seemed European with its castle-like towers, ornate stone, and arches. A red brick path lined with manicured hedges led to the front door, which sported a big, ornate letter “K” on top of it.
Could that possibly stand for Knight?
Was this Jake’s house?! No, it couldn’t be. His parents had left him money, but not this much, right? Besides, I’d found him sleeping on a mattress on the floor of his would-be office. Why would he sleep there if he owned a place like this?
As we walked up the path, I peered up at the warmly lit windows, and the twilight sky framing the structure. The place almost looked like it belonged in a fairytale.
From the right corner, a man came around attacking a row of hedges with big clippers. He paused for a moment to wave. “Hello, Mr. Knight.”
“Hi, Clyde.”
Jake bounded up the steps and, without knocking, strolled into the house.
My confusion-meter kicked up to red.
A giant schnauzer came bounding into the foyer. Jake knelt in front of the animal and allowed it to lick his face.
“Hey, buddy.” He grabbed the dog by the scruff and gave him a shake.
I’d seen schnauzers before but none this big. This guy had to be on steroids—or more likely just a separate breed. His coat shone black, and he was groomed to perfection, including his beard and bushy eyebrows.
Without even bothering to wipe his face, Jake stood and legit introduced the dog to me. “Toni meet Bones. Bones, this is Toni.”
I blinked at the animal, wondering if I should shake his paw. Instead, I went for a little wave. “Hi there, Bones.”
I swear the dog gave me a dirty look. Wait a minute, was he a shifter?
“She’s all right... most of the time. Be nice to her, Bones.” Jake patted the dog’s head and started walking toward a door at the back of the foyer. “C’mon, at this hour, he’s probably in the kitchen.”
“Who’s probably in the kitchen?” I asked, following him and giving Bones a wary glance as he padded next to me as if making sure I wouldn’t steal any of the many vases and gilded portraits hanging from the walls. The place was Fancy with a capital “F.” Polished wooden staircase. Marble tables with fresh, aromatic flowers in porcelain vases. High ceilings. Lush rugs and a color scheme clearly envisioned by a professional interior decorator.
We traversed a mile-long hall lined with black-and-white photographs of wolves in wooded landscapes. I wanted to pause and look at them closer, but Jake’s strides were long, so I barely had time to drink everything in. At the end of the hall, my phone buzzed. I checked it quickly, screening another call from Mom. I put the cell away as we entered an ample kitchen flooded with the mouthwatering smells of cooking.
Bones rushed ahead and curled up on top of a huge fluffy pillow. The kitchen was the size of Rosalina’s entire apartment. An eight-foot island sat in the middle, lined with stools. Cherry cabinets ran up to the tall ceilings and stainless steel appliances shone like mirrors.
A man with gray hair stood in front of a massive gas stove, cooking what looked like ribeye steaks on an indoor grill.
“Hey, Grandpa,” Jake greeted the man.
I skidded to a stop. Grandpa?! Why had he
