Instead, there's nothing. The street is dark and empty; only the moonlight illuminating the sidewalk in front of the door. I park haphazardly and run to the door. It should be locked. Jake may be willing to leave his home unlocked, but even he secures his business before he goes home at night. But the door gives easily under my hand. I open it slowly. It's dark inside, only a glow from the exit sign at the very back, providing any break from the blackness.
I take a second to orient myself and envision the layout of the bar, remembering the position of each table and the plate of switches behind the bar. If I can navigate to the side of the bar, I can reach over and turn on the lights. I use the flashlight on my phone to provide enough light for my feet to follow and make it to the bar. My hand hits the switch and slips across it.
Lights burst on overhead. I press my other hand across my mouth to muffle my scream.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The blood shimmering like oil on my hand is still liquid enough to prove whoever turned off the light left the smears not too long ago. To my side, more splatters the bar and pools on the floor behind it. A handprint grasping the side of the kitchen door makes my heart tighten and my stomach turn. I shouldn't get near it. I know I shouldn't. Every bit of training and experience I've had tells me to step back and call for help, but I can't. I run to the door and push it open with my shoulder to avoid leaving any fingerprints. The light switch is by the side of the door, but I don't touch it. Instead, I take my phone out again and send the beam around the kitchen.
“Oh, god.”
Smatters of blood create a path across the tile floor and toward the back door. Another handprint mars the brushed metal prep counter, and silverware scattered across the floor shows where Jake tried to grab at something to get control of himself and pulled down a rack of clean dishes. From where I'm standing, I can see the back door standing partially open and a sliver of the gravel parking area behind. I walk toward it gingerly, avoiding the blood and not touching anything. Leaning toward the crack in the door, I try to see anything beyond it. There's a small pool of blood just outside the door and a few drops leading a couple of feet away, but then nothing. He must have been dragged into a car, waiting just outside the door.
Running back through the bar and outside, I lock myself in my car and drive to the police station. Esther looks up at me when I storm through the door, but I don't even pause to acknowledge her. Keeping the hand coated with Jake's blood to my side, I wrench the door to the back open and stalk down the hallway. The aging receptionist is close behind me, but there's nothing she can do to stop me. I'm already at LaRoche's door.
“He's not here,” Esther gasps when she catches up to me. “The chief isn't here.”
I jiggle the handle of his office door, but it's locked. My jaw aches with tension as I stare her down.
“Where is he?”
“I don't know. He got a call a few hours ago and hasn't come back.”
The words are no sooner out of her mouth than the front door opens, and LaRoche walks into the hallway. He's wearing a crisp, clean shirt and adjusts the buttons at one cuff as he comes toward us. I push past Esther and rush him, the intensity of my approach, forcing him back a step.
“Ms. Monroe, what… “
“What did you do to him?” I growl through gritted teeth. “What the fuck did you do to him?”
His face darkens.
“What are you talking about? What did I do to who?”
“Don't play that game with me. Not again. Not now. You know exactly who I'm talking about.” He continues to stare at me in confusion, and I lift my bloodied hand to press it into his face. “Does this help refresh your memory?”
LaRoche takes hold of my wrist and looks at Esther.
“Thank you. I can take it from here. You go on back to your desk,” he says.
She seems hesitant but does what he asks. As soon as she's back through the door, the chief pulls me over to his office. He unlocks the door and yanks me inside. I wrench my wrist from him and stand in the middle of the room. My muscles ache from wanting to tear him to pieces, but I have to leave him with the ability to speak if I want to find out what he did with Jake and possibly find him. There's a chance he's still alive. I have to do anything I can to keep him that way.
“Where is Jake?” I ask.
“Emma, you need to tell me what's going on,” LaRoche says.
“I found the blood in Jake's bar. He's gone, and you know where he is,” I tell him forcefully.
“Blood?” he asks. “There's blood at Teddy's? How long has it been since you've heard from Jake?”
“Three hours,” I say. “Esther said you've been gone from the station for a few hours. I would think you would come up with a better story than you got a call.”
LaRoche ignores me and opens the door to his office.
“Every available officer here, now!” he shouts. As if he leads a force of more than four. Nicolas and another officer appear in the hallway, and I meet eyes with the young officer before he turns back to the chief. “Get to Teddy's immediately. Call forensics from Hinkley. Now. Jake's missing, and Ms. Monroe says she found blood. Now! Go!”
They scramble away from him, and he turns back to me.
“Hinkley?” I ask.
“It's the nearest town with a forensic department. You need to tell me everything. What did you find?”
He looks genuinely concerned, but I don't buy it.
“I was supposed to meet him at his house tonight, but he didn't show up. I called him, and he said he had one more person looking for a ride home from the bar, then he'd be home. But more and more time passed, and he didn't get there, so I went looking for him,” I explain.
“And you didn't find him?” LaRoche asks.
“No, but I found the bar unlocked and a hell of a lot of blood.”
“Come on,” he says, heading out of the office.
“I'm not going anywhere with you,” I tell him.
“Yes, you are. We're going back to Teddy's. You are officially a part of an abduction and potential murder investigation.”
I follow him out to the car and try to keep my breath calm as I sit beside him. My hand moves down to my phone in my pocket, readying myself to call my own number and record a voice message of whatever happens in the car if I need to.
“How long are you going to pretend?” I ask. “You're just going to put on this show and try to convince everyone you have no idea what's happening?”
He doesn't answer me.
When we get to the bar, he gets out and heads inside in a few long strides. I rush to follow him inside to see Nicolas and the other officer starting to record the scene. The forensic team hasn't arrived, but they've turned on more of the lights, and the extra illumination, along with separation from the immediate shock of the scene, makes me aware of even more blood throughout the space. It's soaked into the carpet and smeared across the bar. Fine blood spatter covers the mirror behind the liquor, and large drops are starting to dry on the glasses.
“Fuck,” LaRoche mutters under his breath. “That's too much blood. No one could survive that.”
“There are handprints,” I point out. “One on the door leading into the kitchen and one on the counter. He was alive when he got into the kitchen.”
“But not much longer,” the chief says. “No one can bleed this much and keep going. Not without immediate medical intervention, a transfusion, and a miracle. I doubt he got any of those wherever he is.”