Chapter 11

ASHER

The world of coffee is a whirlwind.

I never thought I’d find myself in a situation where I’d be hearing about so many missing girls, especially in my own state. A gnawing feeling in my gut tells me I need to make sure they’re not being exploited in my father’s club.

This might just be the push I need to step foot in that club for the first time in my life. She shows me pictures and videos of her daughter, a young blonde.

A naturally beautiful girl with the most vibrant green eyes I’ve ever seen. I’ve never met her, but I feel a strange urge to help her, to find her, to protect her.

She also shows me pictures of other missing girls, and the strange thing is, none of them know each other. Not a single one of them knows the other—all from different states.

Different backgrounds and social statuses. I’m not sure why I brought this woman for coffee.

I’m not equipped to help her professionally, and I’m far from capable of doing exactly what I want to. But I can’t tell her that—not when she’s spoken so passionately, so genuinely, believing that I can help her.

So I do the worst thing possible. I give her my email and ask her to send me all the information she has.

Names, birth dates. Details about the girls in case they’ve changed their looks, and then I leave her, promising I’ll be in touch—that I’ll “talk” to some people.

But there’s no one for me to talk to. Unless you count one of my fathers as someone important.

And that’s who I go to. He’s exactly where I expect him to be.

I drive home, not to my apartment, but to my parents’ house. The house looms ahead of me, but I veer to the right, walking into Sense and up the stairs, right to the top, where I knock on the door to Callum’s office.

He’s inside, sitting at his laptop on his desk, and his eyes slide to me with surprise.

“Asher,” he greets me, a small smile playing on his lips.

A smile I’ve noticed he uses when one of us kids comes to him for something. He craves that—us needing him—especially since we’ve grown up and left home.

“What do you need?” he asks me as I sit before him, always straight to the point. Never beating around the bush, so to speak.

“I need some advice,” I mumble quietly, looking at the photos lining the wall. One of each of us—a gallery of us kids staring back at me.

“Okay, what is it?” he asks.

I turn back to him, readying myself to ask him about his time in the force.

“You used to be an officer, right?” I say.

“Yes.” He nods, closing his laptop with a confused look on his face.

I’m sure he’s wondering if I want to be an officer. Maybe that’s the impression I’m giving off—the need to ask about a particular career—but that’s far from my intention.

“Daniel refused to help a lady today,” I say, my anxiety about asking him for advice finally overtaking me. “Her child is missing; she believes she was taken to become a sex worker,” I state.

“Daniel doesn’t practice that type of law,” he tells me. “That’s what he told her. But he didn’t even try to help; he had me remove her from his office quicker than I could blink.”

“So, what advice do you need?” he asks me while reopening his laptop.

He’s being dismissive, obviously realizing I have come to him for nothing. That’s the thing with Callum. He always expects better of us and hates that we haven’t met his expectations.

“How can we help this lady? Her daughter has been missing for six months, Dad.”

“Has she contacted the police? It’s a missing person case; it would be their job to chase up on leads.”

“The police aren’t doing anything; they have stated there’s no lead, and she’s a runaway.”

“Perhaps she is.” He shrugs one shoulder.

“But,” I say, stopping myself when he sighs out of exasperation.

I know in that moment, he won’t even entertain helping me. He’s disappointed in me, but how?

“How is work going?” He changes the topic.

“Fine,” I state, not caring about talking about my life.

“I’m proud of you for stepping up,” he tells me.

“You are?”

“Sure, Dad. I get it. You’re tough on me because you care,” I say, standing up from the chair. “I’ve got to run, though. I’ve got stuff to handle.”

That’s how I make my exit, leaving his office behind. We’ve never been the type to openly express our pride in each other, so hearing him say those words feels strange.

I reach the door, swing it open, and step outside. Just as I’m about to leave, he calls out, “If you stick with it for six months, I’ll cover your bills. Keep it up, Asher.”

His voice is flat, but I can hear a hint of pride seeping through.

“Thanks, Dad,” I mumble as I walk away.

Why are my parents so eager to push me into adulthood, yet they’re also willing to cut me a deal? It’s like they want to push me forward but also hold me back.

It’s confusing as hell, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. The woman from earlier has my mind spinning; the thought of her being forced into something she doesn’t want is deeply troubling.

I don’t even know her, but her story strikes a chord within me. So, I head home, arriving at my apartment later than I’d like, thanks to the rush hour traffic.

But I quickly forget about the traffic, grabbing my laptop and settling on the couch. I pull up the email and start going through it meticulously, making sure I understand every detail.

The missing girl’s name is Anastasia, and there are sixteen others just like her. She met a guy online, they started talking on various social media platforms, and that’s how they got to know each other.

Anastasia lied about her plans, hopped on a bus to come here, and hasn’t been seen since. The last sighting of her was on the CCTV at the bus station.

I manage to go through three more files before I have to stop. Maddison, a nineteen-year-old with brown hair and blue eyes, has been missing for three months.

Charlotte, a twenty-year-old blonde with brown eyes, has been missing for eight months. And then there’s Jet, a seventeen-year-old boy. His file hits me the hardest.

The realization that these kids are missing and no one’s doing anything about it fills me with dread. But what can I do to help? What am I capable of?

I have a business degree, not a law degree. I don’t know the first thing about how to handle missing person cases. As I cook myself some salmon, I can’t help but ponder over this.

What can I do? Me. Asher fucking Henderson.

Then, as I’m eating my dinner and gazing out the window, an idea strikes me. I could catfish these creeps, pretend to be a young girl, and create a fake profile.

Get them to respond. Track down where these kids are being taken by following the scum themselves.

Could it really be that simple? Probably not, but it’s a risk worth taking.