Page 26 of The Guilty One
I spin around so fast it startles him, my hand balled into a fist. “Don’t threaten me.”
His hands go up in surrender, but his expression is cocky, not scared. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m merely trying to help, boss.” He winks.
I groan, scrubbing my hand over my face. “I have to work,” I repeat.
“So take some time off.”
“How much time?”
“A week,” he says. “Take the rest of the week off, like you did today, and let’s get some things handled, then you can be back to your cushy little life in no time.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
CELINE
Nelson Insurance is two hours from our house, in a tiny building between a gas station and a liquor store. It’s older with paint that needs updating and a logo decal on the door that is missing two letters.
I have no idea what to expect once I get in there. Will they just let me see Aaron? Will he already be with someone? Will he even be in the office, or does he work from home most days?
I know, once he realizes who I am, that he’ll send me away. I’m just hoping I can appeal to him as a person before he does. If he was friends with Tate before, surely there’s some shred of humanity in him that will want to help me.
I cross the parking lot, stepping over cracks in the pavement with thick tufts of grass growing up through them.
As I walk inside, I’m hit with a wave of stale air, the ching-ching of the bell above the door, and the loud hum of the air conditioning unit. There’s no receptionist at the desk like there usually is at Tate’s office, but after a few moments, I hear someone making their way toward the front.
A shorter, balding man with a serious face and a coffee stain on the belly of his white shirt walks out of an office, tugging at the waist of his pants. “Well, hello there. I thought I heard someone come in.” He holds out his hand with a warm smile. “Sorry about the wait. Kristen’s out to lunch, but I’m Aaron. One of the insurance agents here. Can I help you with something today?”
“Actually, yes.” I brace myself for the worst. “Is there any way we could speak in your office?”
He hesitates, and I worry I’ve blown my cover, but eventually, he says, “Sure. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
I consider lying, but eventually decide against it. “Celine.”
“Nice to meet you, Celine.” He steps back, still appearing wary, and leads me toward an office in the back. The office is generic, with old furniture and cheap, gray carpet. There are a few photographs on a lateral filing cabinet behind his desk, and my eyes immediately drift to one of him fishing off a boat, shirtless and turned away from the camera. His shoulder boasts the same tattoo Tate’s does. The same tattoo that Dakota’s had also.
“Now, then. What can I do for you?” He sits down in his chair and rolls it up to his desk, studying me with his hands folded under his chin.
I take a deep breath. “My husband is Tate Thompson.”
His body tenses, but I rush to continue.
“Please don’t send me away. I know you didn’t want to talk to me over the phone, but I’ve come all this way and I just need your help. I think you’re the only one who can help me.”
“I can’t help you,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“My mother-in-law, Daphne, she spoke highly of you. Said you were all friends in college. She told me you were a good person, that you are a good person.”
He sighs, resting his forehead against his knuckles as he stares down at the desktop. “That was a long time ago. I hadn’t spoken to Tate in years. Mrs. Thompson is very kind, but she doesn’t know me anymore. And neither does Tate.”
“He had your office’s physical address in his email, sent from Dakota Miller, who I believe was also your friend.”
He looks up at me with an exhausted expression that I feel in my bones. “I don’t know anything about that. Like I told you on the phone, I don’t want anything to do with whatever this is.”
“All of your friends are dead or missing,” I say, getting straight to the point. “And I think you know why. If they were truly your friends, surely you would want to help find Tate, to bring him home safely.”
He shakes his head. “I wish I did. I wish I could help you. Tate was a good guy.”
“Was?” I say, my nose scrunched in disgust. “He’s not dead.”