I should call for the club owner, but he won’t do anything to cross Mischa.
There’s one person I want to call, and I won’t even question my reasons for calling him.
* * *
When Harrison arrives, Toro driving, I’m still standing with the woman who was passed out near the side entrance of the club. Harrison stalks out of the car and takes in the scene, his expression grim and unusually blank.
It takes a moment for him to speak, and when he does, his voice is rough. “What the fuck happened? Who is she?”
“I don’t know who she is. But she overdosed on something.” I hold out what I found in her pockets. “I called for the owner after I called you. Management wouldn’t let me call an ambulance. They didn’t want the overdose traced back to Mischa.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Tourists overdose all the time. Could be the shit they’re dealing is cut with something else. Makes it cheaper to produce and more dangerous to consume.”
Harrison feels for her pulse, then looks around. Because we could be seen together, I realize. He’s risking everything being here.
It’s too late to change it.
We pile her into the back seat to take her to the hospital.
The doctors in Ibiza are used to overdoses, and they smoothly take over the second we bring her inside and establish how we found her. She’s in a coma, but I make them promise to let us know when her condition changes.
We head back out to the car, Harrison hanging his head.
Inside, Toro flicks a gaze back before pulling out onto the street. Despite his quiet presence, in that car, it’s just the two of us and the awful things we’ve seen tonight.
“Why did you call me?” Harrison asks.
I swallow hard. “Because you’re going after Mischa and I figured you would want to know firsthand what was happening.”
But that’s not true. I’d planned to tell the police, not Harrison.
Calling him was instinct. Something terrible happened, and he was the person I wanted at my side.
“Señor? Are you all right?”
I look between Toro and Harrison, who nods tightly. Then Toro buzzes up the partition.
“What’s going on?” I demand.
“Overdoses are hard. Since I found my parents dead.”
Shock slams into me, chased by grief.
He found them?
I assumed it had been a neighbor or someone who worked for them.
Now, I picture a college-aged Harrison bursting in the front door, pulling up at the grotesque sight.
“I’m so sorry.”
My eyes burn, my cheeks tingling with wetness.
“Don’t, Raegan. It’s not your fault.”
He’s stoic, controlled. Maybe this is how he became that way. Put in a position that left him feeling utterly helpless.
I touch his hair, smoothing my fingers through it. “This man is out there hurting people, and we have to stop him.”