Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
I knew he planned to move.
And I never told anyone.
Guilt and turmoil crash against me, and as Tom disappears inside, I train my focus on helping. Find Ben. Find Ben. It’s mission critical.
Except as I step forward, I freeze right outside the apartment. I’ve never really been here without Ben. The door swings back in my face, until Beckett clasps the frame.
He’s standing just inside the doorway.
His sweaty hair falls over a rolled blue bandana. His skin reddened like he rubbed makeup off in the car ride here. He pushes the door open wider for me with his back. Letting me inside. Waiting for me.
Remorse, guilt, anguish contort my face. “I knew. I knew, Beckett. He told me he planned to leave New York. I should’ve told you. I should’ve said something—”
“You couldn’t have known what he was really thinking,” Beckett says deeply. “Trust me, you aren’t the only one revisiting every conversation you’ve had.” He does this thing where he tries to pick up my gaze off the floor. He chases after it, and it reminds me of Ben. Is everything going to remind me of him?
I set a harsher, narrowed look on Beckett to steel myself. “We’ll find him. We have to find him.”
He says a single word in French, then tells me, “Together.” He stretches his arm into the apartment, showing me the way.
I go inside, Beckett right behind me. He flicks on the kitchen lights. Tom is rummaging around the couch, searching for any signs or clues.
The apartment is spotless. Like Ben was careful not to interact with any object, any of their possessions, anything he could accidentally break before he left.
My stomach bubbles with nausea again. Especially as Beckett finds a piece of paper and a phone beside the espresso machine.
“He left his phone?” I shake my head at myself, furious with myself. I take off his hat in a huff and shake out my bangs. He left his phone. He never lied to me. He basically insinuated he’d go off the grid, but I thought he’d eventually come back! I thought he’d commune with nature, find whatever he was searching for, and stay in touch with his family.
This…this is not that.
“Unlock it, Beckett Joyce,” Tom says hopefully. “We can check his texts.”
Beckett has a hand to his eyes.
“What?” Tom’s voice spikes. “Open it, dude. His passcode is the day Pip-Squeak died. Or try—try Harry’s birthday. Ten-thirteen. Try ten-thirteen.”
I think Tom is seconds from vaulting over the kitchen island to steal the phone, but Beckett quickly tells him, “He wiped it.”
“No, no,” Tom shakes his head aggressively. “You-you aren’t trying hard enough. You have to try the passcode.”
Beckett approaches Tom at the couch, just to hand him the phone. I join them as Tom turns on the cellphone. A welcome screen stares back. His face fractures for a brutal beat.
The air thickens with tension, making it harder and harder to breathe. “What’s the paper say?” I ask, just as the door flies open.
Eliot storms inside, shrugging off his peacoat quickly like he’s up in flames. Torched to a deadly, incinerating degree. “Any word on Charlie?”
“He’s in Prague for the weekend,” Beckett answers, as Tom snatches the paper out of his hand. “He delayed his trip last night when we went to the frat.” So Charlie is in Prague right now? Great. That helps us…not at all.
I watch Tom skim the note, and he staggers dazedly backward, then drops down to the couch.
“What’s it say?” I ask Tom, but he’s staring off into space, incoherent.
Beckett’s eyes are reddened.
Eliot steals the paper from Tom’s loose grip, then glares at the words. “Not to admonish the missing, but our dear brother has the second most aggravating handwriting of us.” He passes the paper to Beckett. “Please.”
Beckett stares at the note and reads out loud, “‘I’m sorry. I love you. Thank you for being the best brothers…’” He can’t finish.
“Beckett,” Eliot forces.
I take the paper from him to read the rest. “‘Thank you for being the best brothers a little brother could ever hope for and have. I’ll write to you in a week. Don’t worry about me. You don’t need to find me. I need to be on my own.’” I manage to keep my voice level. “He ends with French and his name.”
Beckett says the French part to Eliot, then translates for me, “Forever your brother, Ben.”
Tom bows forward, his distraught face in his hands, then he pops out to say, “The granola, check—check the cupboards, Eliot Alice. See if he took his granola.” His voice cracks with his features. “Okay, we—we just follow the crumbs. We’ll find him if we follow the…” He collapses backward as he loses breath to speak, like he’s been shot in the chest.
It hurts so badly to watch. I’ve loved Ben for months. They’ve loved him for nineteen years.