CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Thomas pulled up outside the vet’s clinic, idling his Shovelhead. Still no sign of the RAV4. He turned off his bike and stepped off, ignoring his burning joints. As he unbuckled his helmet, his gloves smelled of fresh gas that even the insistent rain hadn’t washed off. Leaving his helmet atop the bike seat, he kept his gaiter up and glasses on as he stepped inside.

A young woman with tight black braids sat behind the counter, looking up and smiling as he walked in. An older woman sat with a paperback in the middle of the row of blue chairs.

The receptionist asked, “How can I help?”

“I was here earlier with my daughter, Haddie Dawson. We’re waiting on status about her dog, Rock. Has Haddie been in?”

“Your daughter.” The woman frowned. “No. I haven’t seen Ms. Dawson since early this morning. She probably won’t be back for a couple of hours. Why don’t you call her?”

Trying to avoid that. Thomas nodded. “I will.”

He strolled to the opposite end of the waiting room, near the bathroom, and texted Haddie. “How’s Rock?” She had to expect he’d have some concern.

He’d done a loop by the vet’s earlier, then the coffee shop, and finally checked that she wasn’t back at her apartment. Haddie wouldn’t stray far from Rock, so he’d come back here. Eventually, she would show up.

He ached from using his power last night, and standing didn’t make it much better. The blue chairs were designed to be uncomfortable. I don’t like not knowing where she is.

Pulling up her contact, he punched the icon to dial her. It went to voicemail. Likely, she just wanted some space.

“Just want to make sure you’re okay. Text me.” He grimaced. She hated messages like that.

Telling her so much about him in such a short time, she might never speak to him again. She rightfully thought him insane. Given the same scenario, he would. It still hurt. He’d have to move on from the garage and his present identity at some point, no matter what. Even Biff would begin to question his age. He’d just hoped that he could stay connected to her. It wasn’t the first time he’d raised his children alone. She’d been different somehow.

The past few decades had been different. His prior self had been born and lived on the east coast of the United States. He mused about the idea of warning himself not to go to Iceland. What would that cause — not going back in time? He’d ridden with himself, three times now. Once in Daytona, and twice at Sturgis. A surreal experience. His former self had never seen his face. But they’d been doppelgangers, a hand’s width apart. He could unravel all of his centuries, just by having one conversation — one warning. A theory, at most. But he wouldn’t do it, not and risk Haddie. She would never have been born.

He glanced down at the phone still in his hand. 9:40 a.m. She hadn’t answered. He scrolled his contacts and dialed again.

“Hey, Boss. What’s up?” Biff answered in what sounded like a restaurant with gabbing and clinking plates in the background.

“You got a number for Haddie’s friend? Liz? She works at the police department and teaches at the college? Drives that beater that Benny keeps fixing?” Thomas had kept Biff out of Haddie’s business as much as he could. He was a good man, but didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut sometimes. She’d got him involved last night though, to tow her bike.

“Blue-eyes? Nah, she got better sense than to give her number to me.” Someone at Biff’s table laughed. “Let me ask Benny. He might have it.” The phone muffled. Then Biff’s voice became audible, though distant. “Hold on, hold on.” Someone, likely Benny, called out a string of numbers. Biff repeated them absently, as if to himself and not to Thomas. Still, he caught most of them.

“Biff?” Thomas frowned and started to complain, before he received a text from Biff, a phone number.

“Ya get it?” Biff’s voice returned to the phone clear.

“Yeah. Thanks, Biff.”

“What’s up, Boss?” The outside sounds shifted, as if Biff turned and cupped the phone. “How’s Haddie?”

He hadn’t told Biff about Rock yet. “Okay. Listen, I got an errand this morning. I’ll be late.”

“Sure.” From his tone, Biff had questions, but he let them drop. “See ya when I do.”

“Thanks.” Thomas hung up and opened the text. Taking a deep breath, he dialed the number.

The woman’s voice sounded polite with a lightly curious tone. “Hello?”

“Hi, Liz? This is Thomas Dawson, Haddie’s father —” He’d met the woman before, though he couldn’t remember where. The voice sounded familiar.

“Is Haddie okay?” The woman interrupted, sounding terrified.

His pulse rose and he ran his hand over his hair. “I’m sure. I’m just trying to get her on the phone —”

“She’s not answering. Detective Cooper just called me. No one can get a hold of her.”

Why was Detective Cooper looking for Haddie? A follow up to last night? “When was the last time you talked with her?” Thomas kept his tone flat, not wanting to excite the woman any more than she was.

“Let me check . . . 8:16 this morning. We texted.” Liz replied with barely a pause between her words. “She was at the mortgage company doing an interview with Harold Holmes. I didn’t know, but Sam had called the police, and Detective Cooper is looking to talk to Haddie. Have you seen her?”

Thomas stood, glancing at the older woman reading her book, but she never noticed him. Sam — Haddie’s dogwalker. Why had she called the police? Who was Harold Holmes? “Not since before 8:00. Why did Sam call the police?”

“Suspicious activity outside Haddie’s apartment. Her door is secure. A patrol went out there. I’m worried though. Usually she’ll text me back. This interview couldn’t have taken — what — two hours?” Haddie’s friend had built herself into a near frenzy by the end.

His cell read 9:43. He’d wasted over an hour following a lead that had been a trap. Or at least, useless. Then, while Haddie had gone missing, driven around looking for her. All this time, where had she gone? He took in a deep breath, trying to calm a rising dread.

“Do you have any contact information for this Harold Holmes?”