Boone
The drive back to my loft feels as though I were Rocky fighting Apollo Creed. There are two opinions in my mind's boxing ring, with one wanting to enjoy the evening as Carter planned and the other wanted to drag Carter to bed. Surprisingly, it's not for sex. It's for sleep.
Mrs. Kripke kept me longer than I thought and, while she's as sweet as can be, she drained all the energy out of me. She talked non-stop and half the time I couldn't even follow where we were in the conversation. I'd ask her something about her washing machine and the next thing I know she'd be talking about her niece's cousin's ex-boyfriend's uncle.
Still, tonight's important to Carter. I know she worked hard making us dinner, and I can't wait to tell her how much I appreciate it. There's something good about knowing someone's waiting for you at home.
I park and head up to my apartment. The door is ajar, which makes my stomach churn. She should know better than to just leave doors open—especially with the stuff that’s been going down lately. Except when I step inside, there’s no Carter.
Maybe she's playing some weird game—hiding. It’s a stupid thought, but it’s better than the alternative of being terrified out of my mind.
"Is this some sort of a surprise, Carter?" I call out.
Nothing.
I set my keys on the end table and close the door behind me. I check the time on my phone. It's close to eight, so maybe she got fed up and left. I'd told her seven, and if I were her, I'd be pissed.
I did warn her, though. I texted her at seven to let her know I was finishing up, but that it was going to take longer than expected. She didn't answer me, but I thought it was just one of those texts that don't need answering. Unless something happened?
I find her contact and dial, heading into the kitchen to check for any trace of her. The line rings, echoing through my ear, as I notice our charred dinner sitting on the countertop. What she made is burnt to an unrecognizable crisp.
Mid-ring, the line goes to voice mail. She ignored my call. "This is Carter. You must have—"
I stuff my phone in my pocket when I notice a letter partially beneath a dirty pan. I immediately recognize my handwriting, which looks like total and complete shit because of when it was written. I don't have to read it to know which letter it is. It's the one I kept meaning to burn so she wouldn't find it when I showed her the others. The one I carried around in my wallet for months following Declan's first overdose. The one I couldn't bring myself to give her because I thought Declan would get smart and tell her himself.
It was a true test of honesty, and I failed her.
#
I've never been arrested, but tonight could change things. I realize it as I speed through town to Carter's place. I'm definitely going more than the recommended speed limit, and if anyone tries to stop me, there'll be a fight on their hands. I'm not looking to slow down for anything until I'm in Carter's driveway—hell, until I'm able to explain things to her.
I haphazardly pull into the driveway, and get out, leaving the door open and the car running, propelled by a grimness eating away at my stomach like cancer. I don't have much space in my mind to think about anything other than getting to Carter. Even if this messes up my future with her, I need to make sure she's okay.
My hand slams against the door somewhere between a knock and me breaking down the door. My other one rings the doorbell. I'm one step away from going full Marlon Brando on this place and yelling out Carter's name.
I'm so keyed up, I'm not prepared for Gabe to answer the door and not look like he wants to kill me. Instead he just looks annoyed in his T-shirt and sweats.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
I push past him. The inside of the house is dark, except for the TV flickering in the living room. Kara is sitting on the couch in her pajamas, gaping at me. "Boone?"
"Where's Carter? I need to talk to her," I say.
Kara's eyebrows furrow, making her look so much like Carter a pit in my chest threatens to open up and swallow me from the inside out, whole. "She was supposed to be with you. When we talked, she was at your apartment."
"You mean she didn't come home? She's not here?"
"No, why would she be?"
"Are you saying you don't know where she is?" Gabe demands.
"No. She—I guess she got pissed at me—and left. She was gone when I got home, so I came straight here." I look around, dread eating me up. "She's not here?" She always comes back to Gabe and Kara. They're her safety net. They literally know everything about her. If she didn't come here, then something's gotta be wrong.
The look on Gabe's face tells me he knows it, too. "Kara, I need you to put a call out to the cops."
"Gabe, please tell me you—"
"Kara, everything could be fine, but we've got to be sure," he says carefully. "I'm gonna take care of all this. Call the cops, call your mom. I'm going to go with Boone."
"I want to go with you," Kara says. "I can do all that from the car."
"Kara—"
"No, Gabe," Kara says, standing up. "I'm coming."
I start toward the door before they can keep their argument going. My anvil-sized anxiety is telling me we can't afford to wait around. They follow after me, Kara talking into her phone. Gabe takes the passenger seat, and before he's got his door shut, I'm driving.