* * *
Is Stella with you?
Answer the phone.
Where are you?
Call me.
* * *
I frown, irritation flashing first—he always expects instant access—but it drains away as my eyes return to the first message. Is Stella with you?
My pulse stutters. I hit call.
He answers on the first ring.
“Where have you been?” His voice is tight, frantic.
“Home. My phone was in the kitchen.”
“You didn’t see my messages?”
“I was reading a physical book, Richard. Not everything I do requires my phone in my hand. What’s going on? Why are you asking if Stella’s with me?”
He exhales—long, uneven. Not irritation. Something closer to fear. “We had brunch, came home?—”
“And?” My throat dries.
“I can’t find her. I’ve looked everywhere. You think she’d walk to your place?”
Five miles. She wouldn’t. “Did you fight?”
“No!” His shout crackles over the line, more fear than anger.
“When did you last see her?”
“Eleven-thirty. She went to her room.”
The house flashes in my mind—twelve thousand square feet. It’s old. Creaky doors. Hardwood floors. My heartbeat spikes. “Did you stay downstairs?”
“No,” he says, voice lowering. “Jessica and I…took a nap. After brunch.”
A nap. Of course.
My stomach drops, the air around me thinning. What if she heard them? Went for a walk? “Richard, listen to me. Call her friends. Every one of them that’s within walking distance of your house. I’ll start checking this end. Do you have her iPad?”
“It’s on her bed.”
She didn’t plan to leave for long then.
The front door opens; I spin—relief, hope—then Noah’s silhouette fills the doorway. His gaze locks on my face, reading the panic.
I press the phone to my chest for a second and whisper, “Stella’s missing.”
The words are simultaneously terrifying, electric, and surreal. His posture shifts—lover to operative in a breath.
“What happened?”