TRISTAN COULDN’T SHAKE Del’s words from his mind.
Ever since their last conversation, each time Tristan interacted with a client, he thought of Nora and how they’d stumbled into their coincidence. Del was right. Tristan couldn’t deny it, regardless of how he wanted to rationalize the situation. If Tristan wanted to dance around technicalities, he could point out that he didn’t know with one-hundred-percent accuracy that Nora was his client. At the same time, however, he cared about her, and if she was open to the possibility, Tristan could envision a future together. Like Del suggested, maybe she was walking through a dark season and hadn’t let on. Tristan didn’t want to take advantage of her or, worse, put her at risk.
Come to think of it, Russell Merritt hadn’t heard from his celebrity client in more than a week.
Wrapping up a message to someone else, Tristan grabbed his cell phone and speed-dialed Nora’s number. After several rings, she picked up. He turned on his speakerphone and started talking before she had a chance to utter hello.
“Nora, it’s me. I need to talk to you about something, if it’s okay.”
“Whooziss?”
Tristan detected a slur in her voice. She sounded tired. And why did she ask who had phoned her? Who doesn’t read their caller ID?
“It’s Tristan.”
“Hi Triztannn…”
She sounded as though he’d awakened her in the middle of the night. Tristan checked the clock. Noon. She might have slept in.
Yet something didn’t seem right.
“Nora, I need to admit something to you—” On second thought, this news should come in person. “Can I stop by in a while? You sound like you’re just getting up, but how does an hour from now sound?”
“Mmmm.”
He tried to decipher her reply. “Are you at home?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” Faint. Eerie. Prolonged.
How was he supposed to reply to that? Tristan rubbed his eyes with the fingers of his free hand. “So it’s okay to stop by?”
No reply.
“Nora? Hello?”
No reply.
Tristan looked at the screen on his phone. The connection was still intact. If she was listening, why wasn’t she replying to him?
He heard a thunk. It sounded she had dropped her phone. On the carpeted floor, maybe?
His stomach muscles clenched. He held the phone closer.
“Nora? Are you there?” Now he caught himself jostling his knee. His jaw tensed. “Nora, talk to me. Please.”
No response.
Tristan stared at his phone. She still hadn’t disconnected. The call time, oblivious to whatever was happening, ticked off each second as if everything was normal—which, Tristan had grown convinced, everything was not.
Another attempt to gain her attention by saying her name. He shook his phone and willed her to reply, but heard nothing except the subdued buzz, which indicated the call remained in progress.
Tristan disconnected.
But he couldn’t release the phone from his grip. Frustrated, he tapped it against one knee.
No doubt about it. Something was wrong.
Now both knees jostled. Whatever was going on with Nora, it scared the hell out of him. But what was he supposed to do about it? Call 911, tell them to knock on the door and demand to see an individual who had fallen asleep?
Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?
I don’t know if one exists…
Sir, this number is reserved for emergencies only.
Who else could he call?
His brain felt cluttered. Why does your mind lose its focus when you need it most?
He massaged his temples. Why couldn’t he think of a solution?
Come on! Think, Tristan, think! You’re a wellness coach, for fuck’s sake!
Several seconds passed. Desperation morphed into panic.
Then it hit him.
That friend of Del’s, the one he’d met that night at Del’s house! She was a minister. She would know how to handle these circumstances, wouldn’t she? People must come to her about everything.
She’d given him her phone number in case he ever wanted to talk about life. He’d entered it into his cell phone out of habit, with no intention of calling. He wasn’t a religious person.
What was her name? He’d recognized it, but it wasn’t common. He sorted his contacts by first name. As he scrolled through the list, he muttered under his breath, trying to piece together the syllables of her name.
Delia? Francesca? Something along those lines. The first letter was somewhere near the beginning of the alphabet.
Shit. The pressure mounted. Tristan felt time press in and suffocate him.
Fall…feel…fill… How did her name start?
He found it.
Felicia! That was it. Felicia Whitby.
As soon as she picked up, Tristan switched the phone to speaker mode and started putting on his sneakers.
“Felicia! It’s Tristan, Nora Jumelle’s friend, the one you met at Del’s house.”
“Of course! How are you?”
“Something’s wrong with Nora. I don’t have time to explain, but she sounded weird on the phone and then she stopped talking. I think she dropped the phone. I don’t even know if she’s conscious, so I’m heading over to her house to make sure she’s okay. Can you meet me there? Bring Del too. He lives close by. Maybe she’ll respond to him.”
He bolted toward his front door and fingered through his keys. Removing the phone from speaker mode, he held it to his ear, just in case Felicia mentioned Nora’s name and anyone was outside to hear it.
“Tristan, where does she live?”
“I don’t know the street number, just the name; she was in the car with me the first time I drove there. I’ll know it when I see it.” Locking the door, he whispered her street name and added, “Del probably knows the address, and he’ll know how to get there, too. I think he’s been there before. Hurry! Please!”
He ended the call and raced toward the parking lot.