Missing You: A Companion Novella to Every Breath You Take (Every Breath You Take #2)

By Bianca Sloane

“Someone has to know something. . .”

In this companion novella to Every Breath You Take, Natalie Scott is gone, vanished into thin air, leaving behind a bloody crime scene and a slew of unanswered questions.

To find her, Detective Bill Hanson must sift through Natalie’s violent and complicated past while following every lead, no matter how futile. Even as he hits one dead end after another, a desperate and frustrated Hanson vows not to give up until he finds her.

Is he desperate enough to make a deal with the devil?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bianca Sloane
• Release date: Jul 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311513526

Bianca Sloane

Bianca Sloane is the author of the suspense novels, KILLING ME SOFTLY (previously published as LIVE AND LET DIE) chosen as Thriller of the Month (May 2013) by e-thriller.com and a 2013 Top Read by OOSA Online Book Club, SWEET LITTLE LIES and EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE. When she’s not writing, she's watching Bravo TV, Investigation Discovery, reading or cooking. Sloane resides in Chicago.

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Missing You: A Companion Novella to Every Breath You Take

Missing You: A Companion Novella to Every Breath You Take

Bianca Sloane

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Text Copyright © 2015 by Bianca Sloane

Missing You: A Companion Novella to Every Breath You Take, © 2015 by Bianca Sloane

This book contains excerpts from Every Breath You Take and Sweet Little Lies copyright © 2018 by Bianca Sloane

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, places, dialogue, and plot are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Cover design by Torrie Cooney

http://torriecooney.blogspot.com/

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Author’s Note To Reader

In 2015, I released my third book, a novel of psychological suspense titled, Every Breath You Take. This was a story that lived in my head for a long time (decades) and had a lot of stops and starts along the way. To see it come to fruition after so many years was an amazing feeling.

After I finished writing it, I found I couldn’t shake the characters and wondered what happened to them. Specifically, there was a critical period in the story when events occurred, off the page, that I wanted to explore. That curiosity compelled me to write Missing You.

While Missing You is a companion novella to Every Breath You Take, it can be read as a standalone story. I hope you’ll want to read both.

Finally, readers of my 2013 crime novel, Sweet Little Lies, will notice one of the characters from that story plays a prominent role in Missing You.

Enjoy!

Bianca Sloane

Contents

Part I

Friday, April 12, 8:00 p.m., CST

Saturday, April 13, 8:45 a.m., EST

Saturday, April 13, 8:00 a.m., CST

Wednesday, April 17, 9:45 p.m., CST

Saturday, May 9, 10:15 a.m., CST

Monday, May 11, 7:26 a.m., EST

Part II

Thursday, May 14, 12:15 p.m., CST

Thursday, May 14, 1:45 p.m., CST

Friday, June 19, 2:02 p.m., CST

Thursday, July 22, 8:27 p.m., CST

Tuesday, Aug. 10, 8:55 p.m., CST

Wednesday, Sept. 4, 11:22 a.m., CST

Friday, Sept. 6, 7:15 a.m., CST

Wednesday, Nov. 15, 7:12 p.m., CST

Wednesday, Dec. 18, 10:16 a.m., CST

Tuesday, Dec. 24, 9:00 p.m., CST

Tuesday, Dec. 24, 9:30 p.m., CST

Thursday, Dec. 26, 5:00 a.m., CST

Tuesday, Feb. 4, 8:47 p.m., CST

Part III

Friday, Aug. 10, 7:35 p.m., CST

Acknowledgments

Excerpt of EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Excerpt of SWEET LITTLE LIES

Spring 2005…

The Confrontation…

The End…

Flight…

Hidden. . .

Discovery…

Books By Bianca Sloane

About the Author

Part I

The Past. . .

Friday, April 12, 8:00 p.m., CST

He should have heard her screaming.

It took two seconds to get from the bedroom to the living room. She would have collided with him by now, this …intruder who’d plunged a knife into his back as soon as he walked in the front door, battling him into the bedroom with his insistent blows. Despite his best efforts to keep the bloody slick of his hand around hers, to warn her about the danger—keep her safe—she said she was going into the living room for her phone and to call for help.

Maybe he was gone. That was it. He interrupted a burglary, got attacked for his trouble, and this intruder had slipped out the same way he’d come in. That’s why he couldn’t hear her screaming … because there was nothing for her to scream about. The danger had passed, she was dialing 911, calling for help, just like she said.

Except…

He should have heard the distraught murmur of her voice, either from the other room or right next to him. She should have come back in—she would have come back in—to hold his hand, stroke his face, and whisper that everything would be okay. Tell him how much she loved him.

Unless…

He hadn’t heard her scream because it was too late.

She was already dead.

…said he was from the power company, that there was something wrong with the lines and he had to come in and check, so of course I let him in…

…at happy hour. You know Friday night, and … Jesus, can I sit down?

…victim is Jason Hudson. EMT’s took him to Rush, but they don’t think he’s gonna make it…

"…got home, I saw the front door was open, which was, you know, a little strange. Creepy. I mean, I’ve lived across the hall from J for years and he’s never done anything like that. So I poked my head in to make sure everything was all right, and I just heard this … wheezing and moaning, this choking from the back bedroom and that’s where I found J. God, I’ve never seen so much blood in my life. . ."

…did I let this man in who did this awful thing?

…was gonna go out to dinner. You know how it is. It’s happy hour and people start saying, ‘Should we stay and eat here, should we go someplace else?’ Anyway, we were headed out to another spot and at the last minute, I decided to come home. It was a long week and I was pretty beat. I mean it was just pure dumb luck I even found him, because I wouldn’t have been home for hours…

…oh my goodness. If he doesn’t make it, I will never, ever forgive myself. Such a nice young man, too…

…live alone? Yes. No. Well sort of. His girlfriend’s here all the time. Actually, I think they just got engaged. The last time I saw her? Not sure. A couple of days, maybe? Huh? Yeah, that’s her in the picture…

…no service calls scheduled today. And even if there were, they wouldn’t be coming after five…

…he say anything? You know the only thing he kept saying was Scotty. Over and over. No clue who that is … his fiancée’s name? Nadia? Naomi? No. Natalie. That’s it. Her name is Natalie.

Giving you flashbacks to the Monroe case?

Detective Bill Hanson winced as the elevator plummeted to the bottom of his stomach at his partner Slater’s mention of Mark and Kelly Monroe, one of the most depressing cases of his twenty-two-year law enforcement career. He didn’t want to admit the seeming similarities of this case bubbling beneath his skin: a man brutally stabbed. A missing woman. One and one not adding up to two. The narration track clicked on in his head. Kelly Ross Monroe—90s supermodel, new millennium cosmetics mogul—came home to find evidence her husband was cheating on her. She stabbed him to death and fled the scene, leading police on a frantic chase for close to a week. And yet, Mark Monroe’s murder had been just the tip of the iceberg.

Hanson shut off the soundtrack playing on a continuous reel in his mind, not caring to hear the rest, knowing all too well how that particular tragedy had unfolded, right up to its bitter end.

All right, what do we know? he asked as he maneuvered the lumbering Ford Crown Victoria around Friday night traffic on the way to Rush University Medical Center.

Slater licked his thumb and forefinger before flicking through the limp pages of his spiral bound notepad in search of his notes from the crime scene. Jason Hudson arrives home and stumbles into … well, we know it’s not a burglary. This is a condo building, not a random three-flat you can just break into. Aside from the obvious signs of struggle, place wasn’t ransacked, so they weren’t looking for drugs or cash. And he was stabbed, not shot. This was personal. Intimate. Someone sought him out. One of the residents, Mrs. Freeda Barnes, confirms her buzzer rang a little after five this evening, someone claiming to be from the ‘power company’ needed to come in, though when pressed, she had to admit he didn’t specify ComEd—the words ‘power company’ and ‘trouble’ were enough to get her to open the door. Anyway, she let him in and this may or may not have been our perp. Of course, it could have just been your run of the mill solicitor trying to gain access and the whole thing was a coincidence.

Doubtful, Hanson said, as he rubbed his palm across the back of his neck. Go on.

Anyhow, Hudson puts up quite a fight and they wind up in the back bedroom, where the perp is able to overcome Hudson, stabbing him multiple times. At eight-oh-five, neighbor from across the hall, Adam Kerr, sees the front door is open, goes in, finds Hudson in the back bedroom, calls nine-one-one, EMTs take Hudson to the hospital. Kerr says there’s a fiancée and that her name is ‘Natalie.’ Check of Hudson’s phone shows a call came in from a ‘Scotty’ around seven-thirty, which is the name the neighbor said Hudson was muttering when he came in. Slater put down his notebook and looked at Hanson. Not a lot to go on.

Never is, Hanson said.

You think ‘Scotty’ might be … you know, Hudson’s boyfriend or side whatever and maybe they had some kind of lover’s spat and— Slater clicked his tongue as he mimed a stabbing motion in the air.

Anything’s possible, Hanson murmured, his mind still on the blood at the crime scene. He could never get used to the blood. Smudged across the walls like a child’s finger painting. Drops of it glistening on the wood floors like shiny red pennies. Muddying the doorknobs. The metallic tang of it hanging in the air. He’d seen thousands—thousands upon thousands—of crime scenes. His stomach of steel was able to withstand brain and bone scattered across floors like marbles, yawning wounds and snarled organs spilling out of naked, twisted bodies as casually as if he were perusing shelves of cereal at the Jewel.

And yet, he could never get over the blood.

She’s pretty, Slater said.

Huh? Hanson asked, having momentarily forgotten Slater sitting next to him.

The fiancée, Slater said, motioning to the picture he took on his phone of the couple in the framed photo in Jason Hudson’s apartment. Hanson stopped at the light and took Slater’s phone to study the picture, taken in front of the Eiffel Tower. Both black, tall and slender, both with freakishly white smiles, clear, bright eyes and glossy skin. Two impossibly good-looking people, who, if for nothing else, were well-matched for their aesthetics.

I found an ID tag for Banque Partot in his briefcase, Slater said as he took his phone back from Hanson. I’ve got some calls into building security, see if anyone saw him leave the office late. I’ll also start tonight on building Hudson’s victimology—ex-girlfriends, friends, family, where he went to school, his finances, outstanding warrants … anything else?

Hanson had to admit the ambitious twenty-six-year-old Slater, whose gaunt frame, blue eyes, and blond spikes matched his own well enough to prompt endless queries about their familial connection, was a better investigator than he’d been when he made detective about a million lifetimes ago. Slater was more thorough, less prone to rookie bumblings and fumblings—nothing got past that kid. As a single guy with no girlfriend that Hanson could discern, Slater was greedy for the inhumane hours and thorny assignments, like he had fire shooting under his ass. Not at all like the steady, dependable gait of Hanson’s longtime partner, Didi, who after thirty years on the force, had retired to her native Wisconsin to open a coffee shop of all things. Hanson and Slater had been partners for all of six months, marking the first time Hanson was the senior officer, (he still had a hard time wrapping his head around that one) and he didn’t expect Slater would stick around for long. He wasn’t a lifer like Hanson. It was clear Slater’s sights were set on glory and spotlight—high-profile cases, cable show interviews. Probably even a bestselling book or two or ten. Slater had Future Expert, written all over him. In the meantime, Hanson would wring everything he could out of the kid before he bolted for brighter lights.

Check the surveillance cameras surrounding the neighborhood, see if we can get any kind of a hit on who was pretending to be from ComEd. Hanson shook his head. It’s just too bad there are no cameras in Hudson’s building.

Cameras, right. What about the victimology? Slater glanced at Hanson. Did I miss anything. . .?

Yeah, no, that all sounds good. But listen, no matter how stupid you think it is, how insignificant it may seem, include it in the victimology—I wanna know how many parking tickets he has, what he likes to eat for lunch, who changes the oil in his car—if he’s got a bowl of goldfish on his desk at the office. Everything.

You got it, Slater said, scribbling in his notebook.

Now, Hanson said as he glanced out the driver side window. "Our next, most important

piece of business is to find this missing fiancée."

Maybe she’s already at the hospital, Slater said.

Hanson sighed, trying and failing to squelch the uneasy feeling brewing in his stomach.

God, I hope so.

Words.

Long ribbons of words colliding into each other, swirling into one ear, sailing out the other.

Was somebody’s house on fire? The smoke alarm was going crazy. Maybe it was his neighbor across the hall. He should go over there and check, make sure the whole building wasn’t about to go up in flames. Or maybe it was the timer on the oven. God, that was loud. Was that his oven? He wasn’t cooking anything—was he? Was something burning in his oven? If something was burning, Scotty must be cooking. His girl had a lot of talents. The kitchen wasn’t one of them.

Those words again. What are they saying, these loud, but insistent voices? Hovering over his head, yet garbled … far away, like they were whispering to him underwater or something. Was he at the beach? Was he swimming? No, it was—well it wasn’t winter, it was April, which in Chicago meant it could be ninety degrees on Monday and nineteen degrees on Tuesday.

April. It was April.

Wasn’t it?

Pulse is weak. Spin a crit. Airway looks clear. Run a GCS. Pulse ox is low. Trauma panel type and cross. Good breath sounds. Four units O-Neg. Hang two on the rapid infuser. Is his spinal cord hit? BP falling. Roll him. Tamponade. Need a central line.

Now that he heard. What the hell were these voices saying? Sounded like a foreign language.

Get him up to the O-R.

O.

R.

O-R?

Wait … that meant … operating room.

Which meant surgery.

Surgery?

Were they talking about him? What the hell did he need surgery for? He was young—only thirty-five. Played ball once a week. Hit the gym twice a week to lift. Took a jog around the neighborhood when the mood hit him. Chicken or fish and salad most of the time. Beer on occasion, wine every now and again with a juicy steak and crispy potatoes. He’d just had a physical last month and got a clean bill of health.

Did he have a heart attack? Damn. That must have been it. You heard about shit like that all the time. One minute you’re drinking a beer, watching Monday Night Football with your boys and bam! The next minute, don’t let the doorknob hit you on the way out.

No, no, no. That wasn’t it. Something else had happened. Or maybe nothing had happened. Maybe he was just having a crazy dream—like he was getting really good sleep. That was usually when his dreams took a turn for the wacked out—when he