Read Search (SEEK Book 1) for Free Online Page A

sweat beading along my hairline announcing GUILY, GUILTY, GUILTY.
    Finally she tucks my room key in a green pouch and passes it over the tall counter. I grab it and scurry away, all composure disintegrating the moment I’m out of sight. I kick my feet free, heels dangling from my fingertips and peer up and down the quiet corridors. Thankfully the hotel is at minimum capacity; it’ll make it easier to spot my target. Or so I thought, but when I reach the blue door to room 204 I haven’t seen a single soul.
    Inside, I’m reminded of the fishing cabin where my grandpa used to take me. The same barn-wood furniture and ugly trout upholsteries fill the cramped space. At least it doesn’t smell like fish guts.
    I settle in, spending the evening unpacking clothes, stashing the price tag evidence in the outside dumpster, and studying up on my target, Jonathan Steed.
    First, I look up the basics. He’s six-foot-one, one-hundred-seventy-five pounds, dark brown hair and hazel eyes.
    “My eyes!” I squeal, suddenly remembering.
    Papers abandoned, spread all over the wobbly oak table, I plop down on the squeaky bed and open my laptop. A quick search of what could cause a person’s eye color to change eases my nerves a little. Severe illness or certain medications can alter eye pigments. All the medical sites say it’s nothing too concerning and probably not permanent.
    But I’m not taking any chances. I dig through the envelope and pullout the burner—the untraceable cell phone—and follow the directions for an automated check-in. Then I call Dr. Solomon to find out what medicines he’s given me.
    I tap in the numbers from the auditory directory and wait as the line rolls to voicemail. “Dr. Solomon, this is Donavan. I have a quick question. Call me back at—” I look at the screen and rattle off the numbers before hanging up. I rollover and stare at the tongue-and-groove ceiling—expecting the phone to ring—but when it doesn’t I begin to snore.
    ***
    The next morning I labor over my hair, make-up and clothes, finding it hard to believe some girls do this every day. I can’t even match a single outfit. Maybe I’m out of practice. Or maybe I’m not particularly gifted at primping, and it takes me almost two hours just to be halfway presentable. In the end, I admire the results of my toil in front of the vanity mirror, and feel ready to present Miss Ashley Monroe to the world.
    I check the peephole, keeping an ear on the door for footsteps outside in the courtyard, but there’s been no sign of Mr. Steed. Just one elderly couple – who look to be about one hundred – and some potbellied fishermen in hip-waders talking rowdily about the big one that got away. I suspect their coolers are filled with more beer than fish.
    I yawn loudly. Time to take this search mobile.
    I begin by wandering the empty halls. Next, I browse the gift shop and stroll through the naturally landscaped gardens on my way to breakfast in the dining room. After two hours, I have little more information about this elusive Handler than I did when I arrived. In the parking lot his car sits idle in the same spot.
    A sickening feeling floods over me. Maybe he’s not even here anymore. I hightail it back to my room.
    Empty-handed and out of ideas, I pace the length of the modest space, past the mirror fastened haphazardly atop the chipped-pine dresser, talking to myself.
    “He can’t have snuck out in the middle of the night. He’s right next door, I would’ve heard…wouldn’t I?”
    You were out cold, a nuclear bomb wouldn’t have woken you, I answer myself. 
    “Keira!” a voice calls from nowhere.
    I whirl around—shivers crawling up my neck—fully expecting to see someone standing in the middle of my room. I stare at the emptiness, confused, and then peek through the heavy blue drapes.
    Nothing. Not a single soul anywhere.
    “Terrific. I’m losing it,” I huff, lowering myself onto the bed. I stick my head between my knees.