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his forehead. "Cole, the people that are involved in this are big time. I can't have this conversation," he says as he looks around making a face at me.
    I crinkle my eyebrows. "What the fuck does that mean?"
    Mark stands up quickly, making his chair fly behind him and hit the glass wall.
    "Listen, Cole, I know you're pissed, sad, and scared. Trust me, I am too, but it doesn't give you the right to disrespect your fucking godfather. I suggest you shut the fuck up, and go take a fucking walk. I'm going to lunch in five minutes. We'll talk about this when you've calmed down."
    As he says this, he's stalking toward me. He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. He's fucking kicking me out. This asshole thinks he's going to kick me out? Is he fucking crazy? I snap my arm from his and push him off me. I can tell it's taking a lot for him not to push me back. I decide that I'm going to wait for him to leave on his little lunch break for his meeting, and I'm going to follow him around until he tells me what he knows. Fuck. This.
    I push past him and walk out. I hear his footsteps behind me, but I refuse to look back. I walk toward the elevators and hear Miss Blondie say my name, but I don't turn around. When the doors open, I step in, and Mark steps in behind me. The doors close.
    "Dickhead, did it ever occur to you, that maybe, I'm being fucking recorded and I can't talk about certain things in my office?" Mark asks angrily.
    I narrow my eyes at him. "Does that mean you're gonna answer my fucking questions?"
    "Yes, asshole. I'll take you to lunch, but I swear, you disrespect me again, and I'm going to teach you some fucking manners."
    I rub my face with my hands. My beard is itchy and hot and I fucking hate it. I know Blake would hate it, but I'm not shaving until I find her. Even if I start to look like Santa Claus, or Jesus. I'm not fucking shaving.
    "I would apologize, but you're past pushing my fucking limits, Lewis."
    We take a cab to a little Irish pub. From the outside, it looks shitty. I'd never noticed it before, and I drive by here often enough.
    "How long has this shit hole been here? Is it even open?" I ask, confused.
    Mark shakes his head. "I wouldn't bring you for lunch if it was closed. And it's not a shit hole."
    Inside, the place is nice. The booths are kept up, there's a huge bar in the center of the place, a stage across from it, a dance floor in front of that. Foo Fighters are blaring through the speakers.
    "Shit, this place is actually nice," I say as we scoot in a booth.
    "I know," he replies with a smirk.
    "So, do you know who took her?"
    "Yes," he sighs.
    My eyes shoot out of my face. "You've known this whole time?"
    "Yes," he says in a grave voice. "It's complicated, Cole."
    "Fuck complicated!" I shout. "Stop fucking telling me things are complicated. I fucking know complicated. I've lived complicated. My fucking girlfriend...oh my God, Mark. Oh my God. Mother of fucking fuck. Is...please tell me it's not the same people," I whisper.
    Mark looks me in the eyes, and the pain I see in them answers my question. Fuck.
    "Who are they, Mark? What do they want? Why her?"
    The waitress comes and gets our drink orders, and we order our food so she won't bother us again until it's ready.
    "Cole," he says sternly. "If I tell you-" I make a face. "When I tell you, you have to promise me that you'll let me handle it. Please let me do this."
    I pound my fist on the table, making our waters spill over a little. I practice on my breathing so I won't lose my temper again.
    "Mark, just tell me," I demand through gritted teeth.
    "Blake's father's last name is Brennan. Her mother's was Benson. As in Brian Benson."
    He says it with such assurance, as if I'm supposed to know who the hell that is. As if he's saying...oh shit, Brian Benson? My eyes shoot up to his. Son of a...no way. I shake my head vehemently as I look into his expectant wide blue eyes.
    "Brian Benson?" I whisper hoarsely. When he nods his head, I want to