The Clues

"Where is he? Where did he go?!" The man shouted at her, his face really close to hers, so close that she could smell his rancid breath, it made her want to gag, if his breath didn't do it, his body odor would. His eyes glassy and white glared down at her, a shade of brown that she could only describe as muddy.
"I don't know." She whispered "He left me." She looked to the side.
"You're lying!" he screamed in her face, spittle hitting her.
"I'm not." Her frustration was rising again, three days of this had passed, she was tied to a creaky uncomfortable chair, and fed a less than fresh loaf of bread and a single bottle of water each day. She wanted sugar. And the fact that no matter what she told them, they wouldn't believe that he had left her, hell, she could barely believe it herself. The man with terrible hygiene slapped her across the face; it wasn't the worst abuse she'd received since she got there, she sure was sick of being hit. She chuckled,
"Nice hit." She spit red. "Does it come in men's?" she gave him her most hateful glare. The man spluttered for a moment or two, raised his hand, lowered it, mumbled under his breath, and then stomped his way up the stairs. An argument broke out on the floor above her, two men shouting at each other about the other's uselessness. They thought she was holding out on them. Funny, at this rate, she'd tell them anything to get her home. She just wanted to go home. She was tired of being tough, and tired of being beat.
Three days had passed and no ideas had come to him, where would he even begin to look? He'd grown a patchy beard, his eyes were blood shot and he'd gone through as many packs of cigarettes as the days had passed. He pulled their ice skating picture from his coat pocket, he had folded it, the creases deep,
"Where are you?" he said to know one, in particular, the bartender slid him another beer, just as a drunk woman stumbled up in six inch heels and a short black dress, to ask for another drink, she turned a big 'Bring Me Home' smile on him,
"He's not interested." The bartender said gruffly. "Hit the road." She huffed at him and went to gossip with her friends about the rude service. The group stamped out a minute later, glares in the men's direction. He chugged his beer back, and slammed the bottle down onto the counter top.
"Thanks Joe" He said not looking up from the photograph.
"No problem, what's the deal with the girl?" Joe started wiping down the bar with a damp cloth. He hung the cloth over his shoulder and leaned on the bar, lighting a cigarette with a shiny, old Zippo. Joe offered the flame to him and he lit his cigarette.
"She's... gone." He looked down, his composure crumpling.
"Run away bride Chase?" He looked up at Joe.
"Not quite."
"Then go get your girl!"
"That's the problem, I-I don't even know where to start." He hung his head again. He stood, paid his bill and left.
When he stood outside, he took a deep breath, checked his watch, just after three am. No one else was around except a couple other men from the bar.
"She won't say nothing!" one of them said.
"We need to find him!"
"We have no use for her if she won't talk. We'll kill her soon."
" Pretty name though Arcaidia... Maybe I'LL find a use for her" He nudged his companion. They both chuckled. They were talking about her! His Girl! He slunk back into the shadows. Coming up silently behind them, he snapped one of their necks, and dragged the other back into the alley. He slammed the guy against the wall.
"The girl you were talking about, where is she?" He screamed in the guys face
"Who the hell are you?" the guy sneered, he slammed him back again.
"Tell me where she is!"
"Out on old Farmbrook road! outside of Edmonton! Please man! Let me go! I have a family!" The guy looked frantic. Terrified, a wet stain marking his pants near his crotch, the smell of urine filled the air even more than before.
"So did I, you stole her from me." He snarled in the man's face, his eyes sparked with intensity, then went this guys neck too. "And I'm going to get her back."