Gone Missing: Gone Missing Investigations, #1

By Jami Davenport

With a missing father, a murderous brother, and a marriage of convenience, Becca Galbraith's life is one hot mess…and it's about to get hotter.
 
After overhearing her brother plotting a murder, Becca is desperate to find out the truth behind her family's business dealings and her father's disappearance. She makes a deal with the devil--a gorgeous, irreverent soldier turned PI. She's in over her head and sinking fast.
 
The last thing Bronson Warner ever wanted was to be a groom. The second to the last thing he ever wanted was to be a dad. Through a weird twist of fate, he's now both within the span of a few weeks. His solitary life has been turned upside down and stomped on by a wife who's his exact opposite and teenagers who have their own tragic secret, and it's his responsibility to keep them all safe.
 
 As Bronson strives to protect his new family, he realizes not only are their lives in danger, but so is his heart.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cedrona Enterprises
• Release date: May 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732942011

Jami Davenport

USA Today Bestselling Author Jami Davenport writes sexy contemporary and sports romances, including her two new indie endeavors: the Game On in Seattle Series and the Madrona Island Series. Jami's new releases consistently rank in the top fifty on the sports romance and sports genre lists on Amazon, and she has hit the Amazon top hundred authors list in both contemporary romance and genre fiction multiple times. Jami lives on a small farm near Puget Sound with her Green Beret-turned-plumber husband, a Newfoundland cross with a tennis ball fetish, a prince disguised as an orange tabby cat, and an opinionated Hanoverian mare. Jami works in IT for her day job and is a former high school business teacher. She's a lifetime Seahawks and Mariners fan and is waiting for the day professional hockey comes to Seattle. An avid boater, Jami has spent countless hours in the San Juan Islands, a common setting in her books. In her opinion, it's the most beautiful place on earth. If you'd like to be notified of new releases, special sales, and contests, please subscribe here: http://eepurl.com/LpfaL

Book preview

Chapter 1—Not a Good Day

No day was a good day to die, and Rebecca Galbraith had no intention of being a witness to or a victim of any such crime.

She’d practiced denial for so long, she’d mastered the ability to see things how she wanted to see them rather than as they actually were. Now reality had slapped her in the face.

She huddled in the closet, her knees pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. She loosened her death grip and brought a shaking hand up to her face. Her skin felt cold, even clammy to the touch. She couldn’t faint. Now here. Not now. They were only a few feet away, separated by a door that didn’t lock.

Panic rose inside her, along with a strong urge to leap out of the closet and run for the nearest exit screaming for help. She couldn’t do that, either. They’d hear her, and none of the loyal servants would jump to her assistance. When it came to the secrets held within the walls of this drafty old mansion, the employees were well schooled in seeing and hearing nothing, no matter how horrifying that nothing might be.

She had to think this through. Be calm. Be rational. Be logical. Three things she’d never been known for. She was prone to drama. That was the problem. Surely she’d heard them wrong. Later, she’d feel like a fool for being so ridiculous about it.

She breathed a little easier. She was once again acting on emotions, not logic. Nothing nefarious was going on beyond these closet doors.

Blame it on her overactive imagination, penchant for horror movies, and that PI who’d approached her a week ago insinuating her family had some dark secrets. What ridiculousness.

Her brother loved her. He’d been there for her when her parents couldn’t be bothered. He was a good guy. And Randall had been her father’s right-hand man for as long as she could remember. She trusted them.

She was jumping to conclusions. They hadn’t murdered anyone, even her missing father. She’d heard from her dad regularly once a week for the six months he’d been gone. He was fine, just having a late midlife crisis or something. He’d needed to get away from it all and gone on an extended holiday, leaving her brother in charge.

Since nothing was amiss, she should open the door and surprise them. They’d laugh about her latest trip down drama lane, always looking for a story when there wasn’t one. Yet something unexplainable held her back.

She didn’t open the door, and she continued to cower in the corner. The part of her who’d heard their words berated the part in denial.

They were talking again. She leaned forward and listened to the voices on the other side of the door.

She has to go, said her brother, CJ, sounding oddly gleeful. She knows too much.

You think the old man spoke with her?

Yeah, they were tight.

She’s been with the family business forever.

When should we do this? CJ mused aloud, sounding as if he were talking about getting tickets to a Vegas fight instead of plotting someone’s demise.

The sooner it’s done, the better. We have to tie up loose ends.

Rebecca’s blood ran cold. Her brother was her only sibling. They stuck together. They always had. Randall was loyal and protective of her father and his family.

What loose ends were they referring to? She had to be overreacting. Her fears were running amok again. Ever since Daddy had gone away, she saw a conspiracy around every corner. They were merely discussing firing an employee. Not her demise, or her mother’s, or anyone else’s.

Tonight. It has to be done tonight.

They’d gone silent again. Footsteps echoed in the cavernous room across the hardwood floors and out the double doors. She listened but didn’t hear any other sounds. They’d left. Probably gone to attend her mother’s birthday dinner, which was where she’d be if she hadn’t come into her father’s den to sit with his ghost one more time, smell the deep leather and cigar-scented air, and imagine he was still present in her life.

Only he wasn’t.

She waited, knowing every minute that ticked by could be crucial. But to what? She’d be late for dinner, but she had a habit of being late. She doubted they’d track her down anytime soon. She had to calm down, think logically, not emotionally.

Pushing the door open a crack, she peered into the unlit room. Shadows loomed in the darkness, but none of them was attached to a living, breathing person. Only ghosts of past generations. The room no longer seemed like a refuge. More like a messenger delivering bad news.

Becca slipped out of the closet and stole up the back stairway to her room. By the time she’d dressed for her mother’s birthday party, she’d convinced herself her fears were driven by an overactive imagination. CJ and Randall had most likely been talking about firing one of the servants. In the six months her father had been gone, they’d made a lot of changes and dismissed many of his loyal staff. Out with the old, in with the new, her brother had told her.

Yeah, that’s all it was. Satisfied with her interpretation of the events and safely anchored back in her sheltered view of the world, she joined the party downstairs, chastising herself for being such a drama queen. She’d been too suspicious of everyone and everything and was making herself crazy.

She shook her head and laughed at her ridiculousness. CJ wasn’t trying to kill her or anyone else. This thing with her father had her spooked, that was all.

* * * *

The party had been the usual dull affair Becca had come to associate with anything her mother was involved in. Every minute detail was planned to the nth degree down to the silverware pattern and the music played during cocktail hour. Becca missed the days when Uncle Victor would stagger into parties drunk and cause a ruckus. At least those events hadn’t been boring.

Becca left early and fell into a deep sleep after taking one precaution and locking her door. She woke early morning, took a shower, and dressed. She glanced at her cell phone and saw another voice mail from that PI who’d been harassing her. He’d called multiple times in the past few weeks requesting an interview with her and claiming she might have valuable information regarding a case he was working on.

She didn’t return any of his calls. He had to be a scammer. No one in her family had hired a PI; therefore, she wasn’t talking. The one thing drummed into her head over the years of being a Galbraith was to keep anything to do with her family private. They did not share their dirty laundry. They didn’t talk about her missing father. He was on an extended vacation caused by declining health due to his workaholic personality. Forget that when she’d last seen him, he’d been robust and hearty. Becca didn’t ask questions. She never had, and she never would, even when things didn’t add up.

She stumbled down the stairs to find coffee. She wasn’t a morning person by any stretch of the imagination.

Her mother, Penelope, sat at the breakfast table picking at a hard-boiled egg and sipping a Bloody Mary. She glanced up at Becca, her eyes red-rimmed with huge bags under them. Her clothes were rumpled, as if she’d slept in them all night.

Mom, is something wrong? Becca was alarmed by her mother’s appearance. She never showed herself in public, even to her family and the servants, without full makeup and a crisp, classic outfit. Becca picked up the coffee their butler had just poured and sipped, waiting for her mother to respond.

There’s been a terrible incident. Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a linen napkin. Just horrible.

What kind of incident? Becca’s feelings of unease grew, and this time she couldn’t brush them away. Her mother rarely showed emotion. Something was horribly wrong.

Constantine was found hanging by her neck off her apartment balcony this morning.

Becca jumped, not realizing her brother had entered the room. Compared to their mother, he was unusually chipper and unconcerned. Charles Jr., called CJ by family and friends, slid into the seat across from Becca.

Hanging? Becca choked on the words. Constantine had worked for their father as their administrative assistant for as long as she could remember. She was a staple in the Galbraith empire, knowing more about the business than most of the family members. She’d definitely known where all the family skeletons were buried.

Penelope sniffled. I can’t believe she’s dead. I talked to her yesterday. She didn’t give any indications she might be depressed. She raised her tearstained face and regarded her son with accusatory eyes.

Becca glanced from one to the other. They were having some kind of stare down, and her mother lost. She looked down at her hands clasped in her lap and said nothing more.

She was ancient and knew too much. We were thinking of letting her go anyway. Her brother shrugged off Constantine’s death as if it were nothing.

She knows too much.

Needs to be done tonight.

Her brother’s words from last night screamed through her brain, leaving her stomach queasy and her head pounding. She shot up from her chair, knocking it to the floor and sending servants scurrying to right it.

Her mother and brother stared at her.

I’m not feeling well. Too much wine. She ran from the room and barely made it to her room before she threw up.

Her brother, a killer? She still couldn’t believe it. There had to be another explanation, and she needed to get some space between her and her family to think straight.

Feeling a little better, she needed a plan of attack. She had to get out of this house, get away from this oppressively secretive atmosphere. She’d buy her own condo. There was plenty of money in the trust for such purposes, but she’d need her father’s signature in order to draw out such a large sum. He hadn’t been answering emails. While he’d requested no one call him, she considered this an emergency. She’d tell him everything; he’d know what she should do. Maybe he’d already had an inkling when he’d left.

He’d excuse her for calling him. She needed him, and her daddy always had the answers.

She called his cell and immediately heard a message stating the number was no longer in service. The hair rose on the back of her neck. Becca grabbed her laptop and googled the office number of the condos he’d been staying at in Mexico. The person on the other end of the phone spoke English. Good thing, as her Spanish was rusty.

I’m looking for Charles Galbraith. It’s an emergency. I’m his daughter. Becca clutched the phone tightly and held her breath.

There is no Senor Galbraith in this complex.

Did he move out?

No, we do not have a record of such a person.

Maybe he registered under a fake name to maintain privacy. Becca described him to the man on the phone. Her father was a large man and hard to forget once you met him.

No, no man like that. I am much sorry.

Okay, thank you. Becca hit the End button on the phone and threw herself on her bed. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to make sense of everything. She’d never questioned the origin of those weekly emails, because she didn’t want her world upset. Now she looked them over and knew what she’d known in her heart all along. They didn’t sound like her father. The wording was off. The things he said and the way he said them weren’t right.

She could not panic. She had to be a big girl. She couldn’t run to Mommy or Daddy to fix this, but she could discuss the situation with her brother and assess his reaction.

He could not have killed Constantine or made their father disappear. She had to talk to him.

~ ~ ~ ~

Later that evening, Becca found her brother sitting in her father’s study. He was on his cell, and when she approached, he abruptly ended the call. He studied her with an unreadable expression but gave the distinct impression he was sizing her up for something.

That’s awful about Constantine. Becca sank into one of the plush leather chairs and poured a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter on the glass table between them.

Yes, it’s unfortunate. He didn’t take his eyes off her, and she resisted the urge to squirm.

Do you really believe she killed herself?

He hesitated for a split second too long, not meeting her gaze. The police do, so why wouldn’t I?

Because Dad’s gone and now this.

Dad’s gone because he wants to be. That’s all you need to know. CJ swung his gaze to her. His eye were dark and menacing. She almost shivered. She’d never seen this side of him directed toward her before. Regardless, she soldiered on. She needed to know and wanted to believe the best of him.

I tried to reach him. His phone’s disconnected. The emails have stopped. He hasn’t been in touch for a few weeks.

Let it go, CJ said through gritted teeth.

Aren’t you concerned that something more is going on here?

CJ laughed but the sound was deep and mirthless, and she suppressed a shiver. Stop watching true crime. Everyone is a suspect because you make them so. You crave drama, and when you don’t have any, you create it. Nothing is going on. Our father is a man whose life was out of his control, and Constantine was a woman who was depressed but hid it well. The news is full of such people. Happens all the time. Their loved ones are the last know. He shook his finger at her as if she were a recalcitrant child he was scolding.

How is Dad’s life out of control? She was pushing him, and she knew it.

Fuck if I know. You’d have to ask him. CJ stood and stared inscrutably down at her. Let it go. Stay out of this.

What am I staying out of?

Just stop looking for something criminal and manufacturing a conspiracy where there is none. If you go looking for trouble, trouble just might come looking for you.

Who said anything about a conspiracy?

Leave. It. Alone. With those ominous words, CJ stalked out of the room, leaving Becca with only one viable option. She riffled through her purse for a business card—the one she should’ve thrown out but for some reason hadn’t.

She had to know the truth. If her family wasn’t being forthcoming, she had no choice but to take the situation into her own hands.

As much as she might come to regret it.

Chapter 2—Insanity

If someone had told Bronson that the next person who walked through that door would irrevocably change his life, he’d have never believed them.

He should have.

It’d been one of those Fridays, and he was working late into the night. Not unusual for a PI who specialized in finding missing people or a man who didn’t have a life.

He rubbed his forehead and gazed at the overwhelming amount of stuff stacked on his desk, especially the handwritten phone messages. He needed to hire a receptionist to field all this instead of paying the lawyer’s office next door to take messages. When it came to all things not directly related to his mission or his current caseload, he procrastinated with the best of them. As a result, stacks of file folders stuffed with information took over every available square inch of his already-crowded office and spilled out into the larger outer room.

Bronson sifted through the messages and found nothing of interest. Frustrated, he ran his hand through his unruly hair and sighed. He had to generate some income. Taking on cases pro bono might be personally satisfying but didn’t pay the mounting bills.

He’d dedicated an inordinate amount of time to one particular case he was doing as a favor for his longtime friend and tenant, Perscovia Purr Rodriguez. Her fifteen-year-old nephew, Carlos, had been missing for two months. Three weeks ago the kid had been found dead in a dumpster. He’d been bludgeoned to death, indicating the perpetrator was in a rage and most likely knew him.

Bronson had unearthed the possibility that he’d last been seen with a prominent Seattle businessman, Charles Galbraith Jr. He hadn’t shared this information with anyone because Galbraith was known for charity work involving runaways and homeless children, and the local PD wouldn’t give his story any credence. Hell, Bronson wasn’t sure he’d give it any credence. He’d been wrong before.

He’d called Charles Jr.’s younger sister multiple times, doing the typical PI thing by going after the weak link, in hopes she might have some information on her brother and his dealings. Sometimes the most inconsequential detail broke a case wide open.

The elusive Ms. Galbraith ignored his calls for a week. He stalked her to a gym, the kind that caters to rich people who don’t want to work that hard. He loitered by her car. When she came out, he confronted her. He’d kept his worst suspicions about her family to himself. Merely mentioned he was working on a case that might involve her family, and possible illegal business dealings.

Enraged that he had the nerve to suggest her family might be involved in anything illegal or immoral, she’d stormed out of the parking lot after calling him a few choice words he sure as hell couldn’t spell. Tact wasn’t one of his best qualities, and he’d blurted out stuff she wasn’t ready to hear. His impatience was getting him nowhere fast. He should’ve realized blood was thicker…and all that crap.

Now he was stuck with no new leads. Every door slammed in his face. No one in the Galbraiths’ circle talked, either out of fear or loyalty or both.

He lifted his coffee to his lips and grimaced. That shit was cold.

The main building door flew open and slammed against the adjacent wall. A well-dressed, beautiful woman hurried inside.

He’d forgotten to lock the door again.

She looked familiar, but hard to recognize in the shadowy outer room. The woman glanced nervously over her shoulder and turned the dead bolt, locking them both inside.

Oh God. It was her. Rebecca Galbraith. The very woman whose cooperation he desperately needed right now.

Bronson frowned and immediately his hand went to the gun in the drawer of his beat-up desk. He didn’t pull it out, but he caressed the cool metal, gaining a measure of comfort from its familiar feel. Bronson knew and understood weapons. Women, not so much.

She glanced around and spotted him in his windowed back office. Her heels clicked on the marred hardwood floors as she navigated the maze of boxes and crap stacked in the larger main room, once a hardware store. The store had closed down fifty years ago, and Bronson’s uncle had used the building to house his immense collection of junk. Bronson ignored the outer room for the most part and did his business in the back office. The mess didn’t give a good first impression to clients, but Bronson wasn’t about appearances; he was about action and results.

And it would appear he had a woman finally willing to talk, or he had a potential client.

The dark-haired Rebecca didn’t look angry; she looked desperate. Just in case, he kept his hand on the gun and waited for her to approach.

Mr. Warner? she asked as she paused in the doorway.

He nodded, appraising her with a practiced eye born of necessity. He hadn’t noticed much about her before. He’d been so intent on his mission.

She might be beautiful by most standards, but he preferred his women with some meat on their bones. This woman was in a need of a few good meals. She dripped money, from the expensive diamond larger than a peanut M&M—his favorite candy—on her finger, to the beautiful off-white suit she wore. Even her perfume smelled like it’d cost more than he paid for a year’s worth of hamburgers from the dive down the street. She was classically beautiful with flawless skin, long, glossy dark hair a man would love to feel gliding across his dick as she—

He shook his head. He didn’t have sexual fantasies about potential clients or witnesses.

We met a week ago. You’re a licensed PI? Her apparent disbelief rankled him. Still, she was here, and he needed her help, so he bit back the sarcastic response sitting on the end of his tongue.

Yeah. I’m licensed. He took his hand off the gun but left the drawer open a few inches. Leaning back in his chair, he propped his feet on the desk, assuming a nonchalant pose that was anything but. He put his hands behind his head and assessed her with a hooded gaze. She stared back, chewing nervously on her lower lip. Unlike the other day when she’d been cool as a block of ice, she was on edge.

Their gazes met, and Bronson would’ve staggered backward had he been standing. Her eyes drew him in like a hypnotic siren leading him to his fate. They were a deep blue and a striking combination with her dark hair. He couldn’t drag his gaze from hers. In those seconds their gazes remained locked, he finally understood the meaning of took my breath away. She’d rendered him incapable of simple speech. She broke eye contact first, much to his relief.

You gave me your card. Asked me to contact you if I had any information.

And you essentially told me to go to hell.

So I did. I didn’t believe you. You don’t look old enough to be a seasoned PI. She squared her shoulders and stared him straight in the eye, showing a backbone he wouldn’t have guessed existed.

I’m old enough. If not in years, in mileage. He was thirty-three. He’d always thought he looked older, but obviously not to her.

I thought you’d be a retired cop or something.

I’m a retired something. She was starting to annoy him, which wasn’t hard to do. Most people irritated him.

She nodded briskly, as if impatient and not all that interested in small talk. Good, neither was he.

She stared intently at him until he had to resist the urge to check his face in the mirror.

I’ll get right to the point. I want you to prove that my brother isn’t a murderer and my father is missing because he wants to be missing. She dropped her purse on the floor and sank into the scarred wooden chair across from this desk. Her earlier boldness deflated like air from a slashed tire.