"You're telling me there is no forty-eight-hour waiting period in one breath, and then telling me there's nothing you can do in the next," I growl at Detective Lucas Strand, glaring at him from across my desk. He's young, but to his credit, he doesn't flinch.
He didn't react when Travis brought him in either. Most people are easy to read. They get close and I can tell they've heard the whispers and rumors or have some sort of opinion about who I am. Strand reminds me of Jax Archer, a new business acquaintance…one of a handful of men I actually like. Jax is ex-Navy. A SEAL.
Strand has that same glint in his eyes. It's a hardness I recognize because I see it every time I look in the mirror. He's seen things others haven't. He's done things that stuck with him. If that didn't make me certain he's former military, his crewcut hair and broad shoulders, not to mention the way he carries himself, is a dead giveaway.
"I'm not saying that," he says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm saying she's nineteen years old and, by all accounts, left of her own volition. In most cases like this, they calm down and come running back in a day or two."
"This isn't most cases," I snap at him, trying hard not to lose my patience. "Ainsley isn't a teenager having a temper tantrum." She's never had a tantrum a day in her life. If Milan thinks she plans to disappear, it's because she plans to disappear.
"I'm not saying she is," Strand says. "But she's not in distress and doesn't have any mental issues. I'll absolutely write up the report now and get her entered into the system in case anyone comes across her. But we can't force her to return home if that's not what she wants to do. She's legally an adult."
I glare at him, no more pleased the second time around than I was the first time he said the same bullshit. He's a police officer, a detective. His job is to protect and serve. He's doing a piss poor job of both right now, quite frankly. And I can't even be mad at him because it's not his fault the law is what it is.
"If anyone comes across her, they'll check her welfare, make sure she's doing okay. They'll try to convince her to come home," he says. "But unless she's a danger to herself or others, we can't force her to go anywhere against her will."
"Fine," I growl, rubbing my temples like that'll ease the pounding headache taking up residence behind my right eye. "Do the report."
Travis shifts positions, which seems to remind Strand he's here. Strand glances over his shoulder at Travis. If he has questions about his presence, he doesn't ask them. He calls for his dispatch on the radio and requests a report number before jotting it down on a card and handing it over to me.
"Do you need to file a theft report for the vehicle?" he asks.
"No." I pause. "Would a report need to be filed in order to initiate a GPS trace through the onboard navigation system?"
"In most instances, yes."
I had a feeling he was going to say that. Which means tracking her through Milan's car is out of the question since Milan removed the tracker I put on her car. Hell will freeze over before she willingly files a report. Especially since she's not currently speaking to me. As soon as we got home, she bolted out of the limo like a rabbit. I'm guessing she's hiding out in the guest suite she uses when she stays here. Or else she's up there, tying the sheets together to use as a rope. Either way spells bad news for me.
She won't come out willingly, and I want her in my bed where she belongs. Both because it's where she belongs and because I know she'll take off as soon as the coast is clear if she isn't where I can keep an eye on her.
"If you haven't heard from your niece in a day or two, we can send her info to the media, ask them to put it out," Detective Strand says. "It may help us track her down."
For the first time since he arrived, I hesitate. One of the reasons I've always guarded Ainsley so carefully is because she's a target. Julian and Marissa left her everything. I've added to it over the years, meaning she's worth millions. I'm not sure she knows just how big her trust fund is—she's never asked about it. But anyone who figures out she's my niece would know enough to know she's worth a hell of a lot.
She worked with me for a few days a year ago when my secretary quit but she knows nothing about my business dealings. As Milan reminded me though, I've made a hell of a lot of enemies over the years. Most aren't stupid enough to test me by going after my niece, but I didn't get this far in life being careless. There's always someone out there willing to cross that line and hope the deck falls in their favor.
"I'll let you know," I mutter to Strand, not ready to commit to telling the entire world Ainsley's missing just yet. I need to do some digging first, grease the right palms. Hopefully by the time anyone knows she's gone, she'll be back where she belongs. If not, I need to move carefully before telling the entire world. I will absolutely destroy Cheyenne brick by brick if anything happens to her.
"My number is on the card alongside your report number," Strand says. "If anything comes up or you have any questions, feel free to give me a call."
"Thanks," I mutter and then jerk my head in a nod, silently telling Travis to show him out.
Travis steps forward from the shadows.
"Good luck, Mr. Foster," Strand says and then heads out with Travis tailing him.
I'm not particularly worried about Strand trying to pull any bullshit while he's here, but I don't want him wandering around by himself either. I buried my crimes long ago. Better men than he have tried to shake them loose and failed. But better safe than sorry. The last thing I need is some eager cop trying to plant a bug or poke through my shit. Or God forbid, coming across Milan and finding out she's not here of her own free will. She's mad enough right now for me to worry she really would tell him that.
Once Strand and Travis are out of sight, I slide his card inside my desk drawer and then lock it. I have a pile of shit waiting for my attention, but Ainsley and Milan are my priority right now. Until both situations are resolved, everything else will have to wait.
I send a quick text to my assistant, letting her know not to expect me for the next week or so. Tessa has only been with me for a little over a year, but I trust her to keep everything running smoothly. She knows her shit, and I pay her enough to ensure her loyalty.
She texts back almost immediately to let me know everything will be fine.
I slip my phone into my pocket and take a deep breath before going in search of my girl.
It doesn't take me long to find her. To my surprise, she isn't locked up in the guest room, trying to avoid me. She's in the kitchen, cooking. An Ivan Neville song plays from her phone. She sings as she pours noodles into a pot of boiling water, swaying her hips.
I lean against the doorjamb, watching her as something soft shoots through me. Warmth. Affection. Love. I'm not sure exactly which it is. All I know is that she fits here exactly as if she belongs. I just have to find a way to convince her to see it too.
"I see you staring at my ass," she says without even turning around.
"Can you blame me? It's a great ass," I murmur, moving toward her.
She tenses as I slide an arm around her waist.
"We have a cook."