Patchworked Hearts {SAMPLE}

Chapter 25

Helen chewed on the inside of her cheek, spinning a pen in her fingers thoughtfully as she eyed her computer screen. 

On it, an email from a contact of Dahlia's was displayed; Helen had found the man's information while snooping through Dahlia's desk for the third time—the sticky note had been hidden in the back of a drawer. She'd sent him an email right away, explaining the situation and asking why Dahlia had contacted him.

The man, a local private investigator by the name of Thomason Henrick, had sent back a reply almost immediately.

Ms. Fischer, it read, I'm glad you reached out. Dahlia is a friend from high school, but she and I have stayed in contact since then. I had a feeling something was wrong; I've been trying to reach her for the past week with no success. I'm guessing that, since I didn't see anything on the news, they're trying to keep her disappearance quiet until they have a better understanding of what's going on.

As for your question: I'm afraid that Dahlia wasn't forthcoming, even with me. That said, I can't say much over email. If you'd like to speak in more detail, we can meet in person and grab a coffee. My number is below.

His number was, in fact, below, but Helen couldn't decide if she was going to follow through and call him or not.

On one hand, Thomason Henrick presented the closest thing to a lead that she had, and she was dying to learn what he knew.

On the other, was it really smart to meet up with a man she'd never met? What was there to say that he wasn't somehow involved in Dahlia's kidnapping?

Oh, who are we kidding? she groaned inwardly, her fingers tightening around the pen. You have to know; your inner journalist won't leave this alone, and what if it leads you to Dahlia? You can't just drop it.

And yeah, that was all true. After all, even an advice columnist like herself still had a reporter on the inside. Moreover, she had to find Dahlia; the police had no leads still, and this . . . well, it was her best bet.

But, if she was going to go through with it, then she was going to need some backup.

Pat was her immediate thought, but she was quick to push that idea away. It hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours since Pat had told her about Tess and his worries concerning Helen; he'd taken the day off, and the last thing he needed was to help her meet up with a possibly-maybe-dangerous person.

He'd probably tie us to a chair if he knew what we were trying to do, anyway, a familiar, snarky voice piped up in the back of her mind, and she couldn't help but agree.

Still, we need someone . . .

Thankfully, Helen had someone else who, although not physically intimidating like Pat, was always up for an adventure.

Decision made, Helen dropped the pen onto her desk and snatched her phone, her fingers flying over the screen.

***

"You know," Addy mused aloud, doing an odd, knee-jerk of a dance in her spot beside Helen, "I look hella hot—like a silver fox, am I right?"

Helen couldn't stop a snort as she let her eyes slide to her best friend. "I'm sure you're every girl's ideal sugar daddy. Keep it in your pants though, please, Robert."

"Don't speak that way to your elders, missy," Addy reprimanded, her voice gruff as she reached up and fixed her hat and hair. Helen wasn't totally sure what the woman had done to her locks—maybe the new hairstyle was a wig?—but they were now tightly-cropped, coiffed, and a stunning silver-white color. She'd even crafted a matching mustache and, with her loosely fitting clothes, extra padding, old cane, and hunched back, she looked every bit an innocent old man come to grab a plain black coffee.