Wrongquiet.
The kind of quiet that means he found something and it isn't good.
He's standing in the doorway of our dressing room.
The one we already checked.
The one that was empty thirty seconds ago.
"We missed it," he says. His voice is flat.Shockflat. "Look."
I push past him.
On the folding chair where Bells sat in Rex's lap an hour ago, there's a bouquet of roses, dark red and black, wrapped in clear cellophane, lying across the seat like someone placed them there with care.
A card is tucked into the stems. Small. Cream-colored. Elegant handwriting.
I cross the room in two strides and rip it free.
My beautiful songbird. You've always been mine.
The card crumples in my fist.
My vision goes red.
Not metaphorically. The emergency lights are still strobing, painting the concrete in rhythmic crimson, and combined with the adrenaline and the fury and the absolutevolcanicmotherfucking ragedetonating through my nervous system, the entire world narrows to a red point.
The folding table goes first.
I flip it. Shakes and snack trays and the glass bottle of Rex's drink explode across the concrete in a red spray. The garment rack goes next. I grab the aluminum pole and wrench it off its base and hurl it into the cinder block wall with a crash that echoes through the corridor.
"RAF—"
"He washere!" The words come out as a roar that doesn't sound like me. Doesn't sound human. "He was in this fuckingroomwhile we—whileshe?—"
I pick up the folding chair. The roses scatter. I slam the chair against the wall once, twice, three times until the legs bend and the seat buckles and the metal frame deforms in my hands.
"Hetookher!"
Phoenix grabs me.
Both arms, full bear hug, my back against his massive chest, pinning my arms to my sides. I fight him. Thrash against the cage of his arms with everything I have, snarling, my boots skidding on the wet concrete, but Phoenix is a fucking giant and when he decides to hold someone down, they stay the fuck down.
"Let go of me!"
"Raf, STOP."
"I'm going to fuckingkillhim!"
"I know. I know." His voice is in my ear, low and steady and shaking underneath the steady. "But you can't kill him if we can't find him, and we can't find him if you destroy the only room with evidence."
I stop fighting.
Not because the rage is gone. It's still there, molten, filling every vein, making my hands shake and my teeth grind. But Phoenix is right.
The bastard is always right.
He loosens his grip by a fraction. Testing.