“I thought that at first, but it doesn’t look like junk.” She hands it to me. “Here. See for yourself.”
Left without a choice, I take it. It’s as big as letter-sized paper folded in half, and the material is stiff and waterproof. The outside doesn’t have any stamps or indication of where it’s come from. It merely has a name—LUCAS REED—in all caps.
Maybe it isn’t junk after all. “Thank you,” I say and take it to my office, trying not to limp.
My left leg is shorter now, even though the surgeons did their best to minimize the discrepancy. I can usually manage to disguise it, but on days when my leg muscles throb, it’s hard to hide my uneven gait.
I close the door to my home office and slump in the armchair that faces the cold and black fireplace. The mantel has a framed photo of me and my brothers and sister, taken while we were exiled to fancy European boarding schools. People call it “education,” but that’s just a euphemism. There aren’t any pictures of Ava and me together. We never took any, and I don’t remember why. I wish we had.
For what? To burn them? Delete from your phone’s memory? Would that have made it clear that she’s gone?
I tug at the little red-tipped section on the corner, and the envelope comes apart easily. Glossy photographs spill out, landing in my lap. I pick one up.
A young female pedestrian on a stone bridge crossing a river. Wind tosses her long and wavy platinum blond hair. The color of her eyes is ice blue, which never seems to fit because they’re too warm. Her facial bones are delicate, her lips soft. She’s always been frail looking; just a tad too thin, as though she grew up without enough to eat. That hasn’t changed from the way the pale pink dress fits her, a slim white belt cinching her small waist.
My fingers go numb. Ava.
Heart hammering against my ribs, I flip the picture over. Nothing on the other side. I pick up the rest of the photos, but none of them have a message for me on the back.
Suddenly a thought bleeds into my mind. All of the photos are candid shots. Someone’s been watching her.
Stalker?
My gut goes cold. My sister Elizabeth has had her share of problems with assholes who didn’t understand the meaning of no. But this feels different. Why would a stal
ker send me Ava’s photos?
I dig inside the envelope for clues. My hand grasps a piece of paper.
Le Meridien Chiang Mai, Thailand, it reads. Underneath the name of the hotel are dates—today, tomorrow and the day after—and an itinerary for a flight from Chiang Mai to Osaka via Seoul on Korean Air. The flight doesn’t leave until almost midnight two days from now.
If I leave now, I can be in Chiang Mai before the departure.
I pick up the photos again. I didn’t see them before, my focus on Ava’s face, but the signs around her are in Japanese. I still remember a few hiragana and katakana characters from way back when I spent a semester in Tokyo.
So why Chiang Mai?
I toss the photos on the floor and throw my head against the back of my chair. I never, ever go after exes. Never. Not like some lovesick fool with my heart on my sleeve. I might as well cut off my dick and carve LOSER into my face with a nail.
But I’m entitled to closure. It won’t be begging if that’s all I want…and maybe a pound of flesh for all I’ve suffered in the last twenty-four months.
On its own volition, my hand reaches into my pocket and pulls out my phone. My fingers move across the smooth surface and dial my pilot, who’s ready to go 24/7.
“Sir?”
“Chiang Mai,” I say. “ASAP.”
I head straight to the garage. No time to pack.