Helen stood in the doorway to Dahlia's apartment with wide eyes.
The place was entirely trashed.
What was once a stylish, modernly (and no doubt expensively) decorated apartment was left in tatters, with ripped curtains, smashed mirrors, broken furniture, and shattered knick-knacks.
"Helen," Pat snapped from where he stood in the doorway of a bedroom or bathroom, the single word marking the only time she could ever recall him getting even mildly upset with her, "I told you to wait until I came and got you."
Helen didn't respond, instead walking through the condemned room in a daze, letting her fingers trail across the torn leather of the sofa as she gazed a broken picture of Dahlia and what appeared to be the woman's father. "Do you think she's okay?" her voice was a croak that was nearly swallowed by the apartment.
Pat blew out a slow breath, and his heat appeared at her back a moment later. "Sweetheart," he murmured, letting his fingertips dust against the back of her elbow, "don't think about that right now. We don't know what happened here or where she is, but the cops are on their way and will figure it out. Okay?"
Helen's gulp was audible. "Right." The word was lacking conviction. "Yeah."
She felt a rush of air against the back of her head as he opened his mouth to respond, but he was stopped from speaking when three hard knocks echoed against the door. "Police!"
Pat stepped away from her, only to turn her around and shield her from the door. "Come on in."
The door was flung open, and two men marched inside, one of them in a uniform and the other dressed as a normal civilian. The older (and taller) of the two stepped forward and reached out a hand towards Pat. "Petty Officer Hale," he greeted. "Sorry we have to meet again under such unfortunate circumstances."
"Patterson's fine, Detective Buckley," Pat returned, shaking the man's hand firmly while Helen watched on in bemusement.
What's going on here?
The older man, Buckley, dropped Pat's hand and stepped back to assess the damaged space. "This isn't looking good so far; when did you know Ms. Olson was missing?"
Pat's shoulders rose and sank with a silent sigh, and then he stepped aside and passed Helen a small, encouraging smile. "I didn't," he explained to Buckley, "but my girlfriend works with Dahlia and was smart enough to know that something was wrong."
Under normal circumstances, Helen would have blushed under the praise, but these weren't normal circumstances. So, returning Pat's encouraging look with a determined one of her own, she stepped forward and began to explain her original concerns to the detective.
It wasn't much, but—at the very least—she was starting the search that would hopefully end with Dahlia's safe return.
***
Helen stared at the passenger side mirror, watching as the flashing lights of the police cars faded form sight, her fingers jumping about her lap like scared insects.
"Where to, sweetheart?" Pat's voice broke through her muddled thoughts, and she swung her eyes to his face; even from the side, she could easily tell that he was worried by the downward tick of his lips and the crinkle in his forehead.
"Work," she replied, though her tone sounded empty even to herself. "Yeah, work."
Pat blew out a sigh. "Are you sure, Helena?"
She wasn't really, but, "I think it'll distract me." She didn't want to think about Dahlia's destroyed apartment any more than she had to.
The brow between Pat's brows deepened further. "Alright, but please don't stay too late. I'll pick you up?"
YOU ARE READING
Patchworked Hearts {SAMPLE}
Romance"Crap, sweetheart," Pat's voice was tinged with regret, even as he cupped her face with both hands and began to dust kisses on all the available skin he could find, "I didn't mean to make you cry." Helen sniffled, bringing her hands up to wrap her f...
