I've set myself up in Ravenel's conference room with financials printed and spread out all around me. The company accountants are set to arrive and give me a proper rundown, and Uncle Robert is keeping to himself at the end of the table with his own files.

Ravenel's assistant pokes her head in the door for about the eleventh time. "Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Montgomery?"

"We're fine. But, thank you." I speak for both of us in the room.

She pouts. I should be hitting that while I'm in town, it would certainly go some way toward easing the tension brewing the last few days. I stare after her. Why am I not? I definitely noticed how cute she was when I came in a few days ago, and she would be more than willing, that much is obvious. What was her name again? Daisy, I think.

"I wouldn't if I were you."

I look up to where Robert is sitting at the end of the table with his own files.

He nods his chin toward the door. "She's Maybank's niece. As in Mr. Ravenel's law partner."

"Thanks for the heads-up," I tell him then cast my attention back to the papers in front of me. "Where is Maybank anyway?"

"Hunting in Africa."

"Gross," I mutter.

"Tell me about it," Robert concurs, and I give him a surprised look. "Please," he adds. "It's not like culling the deer population. Killing endangered animals with a gun from a safe few hundred yards away is pure greed."

"Fact," I say, begrudging we have common ground.

He looks at me over the top of his file. "My mother hasn't made it in. I'm assuming the meeting did not go her way this morning?"

I blow out a breath. I still feel like shit. It felt both good and horrible to get all that off my chest. "I wouldn't say it went well, no. I don't know what "her way" was, but let's just say we didn't get that far."

"I'm sorry, you know?"

"About what?" I ask stiffly.

"About Savannah. My sister. She was a screw-up, I know. But so was I. We'd have to be, with cold parents like ours. I tried to reason with them. Hell, I even tried to contact Savannah myself, but she wouldn't respond. I—I'm sorry, Trystan. I would have been there, if I'd known."

I swallow over my tongue that feels too large in my mouth.

"Thank you," I manage, but it comes out hoarse. My heart is pounding in my throat, my head heating up. Burning.

"Fuck," I mutter and stand abruptly. "I need some air."

Stalking out of the room, through reception and down to the street, I feel like I can't get outside fast enough. Like I might suffocate. I think I was about to fucking cry in there. Except I don't damn well cry. Haven't in fourteen years.

---

Emmy is sobbing so hard I can barely understand her.

"Shh, calm down," I tell her. "Sweetheart, I can't hear what you're saying."

I'd answered without thinking, desperate for the distraction she brought from my own family drama, only to be greeted by almost incoherent hysteria.

"D-David's missing. He wandered off. They can't find him, they don't even know when he left."

My stomach sinks as I stand on the sidewalk outside the law office. "Oh shit, honey. I'm sorry." I cross the sidewalk and lean against the building. Did I just call her honey?

"H-has he called you?" she asks.

I frown. "What?"

"That's why I called you. He calls me sometimes, repeatedly. I thought maybe he was trying to get hold of me and couldn't, and that's why he left, you know?"

She hiccups.

Shit. I look down at the phone and go to the missed calls in case somehow I didn't hear them. There's nothing but the calls from early this morning and then two I let roll to voicemail that was a Charleston number that said "Work."

I breathe out. "I'm sorry. Only your work called."

"W-Will you answer the phone though? If it rings? If it's a New York number? Or any number? He could be anywhere. Oh my God. What if something happens to him?" Her voice breaks to a whisper. "He's all I have left."

My bruised heart is taking a fucking beating today. Jesus. The sound of Emmy's desolation is killing me.

"He can't have gone far," I tell her. "I mean he has no money, right? And they've called the police?"

"Yes." Her soft sniffles are pathetic, and they make me feel helpless.

"Can you think of anywhere he might have wanted to go if he had money?"

"I—no. I don't think so. I mean he worked in the city, but I can't think where he'd go. And he doesn't have any money, so there's just . . . it's impossible."

"Where did he work?"

"He had a small investment firm near Wall Street. But I really don't think he'd go there."

"Look, I don't know much about how this stuff works, but my instinct tells me he might go somewhere that feels familiar."

There's quiet. "I'm scared, Trystan. God, why am I telling you this? I don't even know you. I'm sorry."

I squeeze my eyes closed. "It's going to be okay, Emmy. I'm sure he'll call, and if not, someone will find him and call the police. It's going to be okay."

"Okay." Her voice sounds tiny.

"Okay," I reply softly.

"Trystan?"

"Yeah?"

"You can rent my place. I can't come back tonight what with David missing. And I . . . if you still need to that is. But it would probably help me. Monetarily, I mean, if you did. Staying in New York is expensive—"

"Yes," I cut in. "I'll rent your place. Text me your bank details, and I'll deposit the money for two nights."

She's quiet again. "Th-Thank you," she says haltingly.

"Of course, Emmy. Let me know if I can do anything else, and I'll let you know if David calls."

"Wait! Are you allergic to cats?" she asks. "I have a cat. Armand's been feeding her. Is that okay? You don't hate cats, right?"

I frown. "Only if they sleep on my face," I say.

She giggles then.

I smile, but my brow furrows. "What's so funny?"

"No pussies on your face. Got it," she says, stunning me speechless.

Then she bursts out laughing which almost instantly devolves to crying again. "Oh shit, I'm a mess," she finally manages through her tears.

"Not gonna disagree," I counter, shaking my head but grinning at the same time.

"Thank you, Trystan," she says finally when she has herself under control.

"You're welcome, Emmy."

I press end, slip the phone into my pocket, and head back inside.

---

We're an hour into the meeting with the accountants and going through all the profit centers. Every time the phone buzzes, I apologize and take it out of my pocket to check the number. Emmy sends her bank details, and I forward them to Dorothy asking her to make an instant transfer or go into a branch if she has to. I name a stupid amount, but I'd rather err on the side of too much than not enough.

The next time it buzzes it's Emmy, sending her address and telling me to call Armand for the key.

The next one after that she's asking if I've heard from David.

And the following one is a list of instructions including where to find clean sheets to change the bed and the Wi-Fi password.

"Are you with us?" Robert asks, frowning.

"I am," I say. "Apologies. I have a friend going through a crisis. Her elderly family member walked out of a nursing facility this morning. He may call me, so I'm trying to make sure I don't miss a message."

"Surely they had an anklet on him?"

I look at Robert blankly.

"Elderly residents, particularly those with a propensity to wander, have a digital bracelet or anklet that sounds an alarm if they near the exit. It's gross negligence on their part if he wasn't wearing it, or it wasn't working. Which facility is it?"

"Um, Rockaway Nursing in Far Rockaway outside of Manhattan."

"Oh. I don't know it. I thought it might be somewhere near here. We pretty much know of all the major competitors in the area."

I narrow my eyes on all the paperwork in front of me and the lists of assets. Most are student housing, apartments, a couple of emergency clinics, and a whole family of retirement and nursing home communities. Huh. I hadn't put two and two together, that Montgomery Homes & Facilities also owned nursing homes.

"What would it take to move someone into one of our facilities down here?" I ask.

Robert shrugs. "If they can pay, and there's a suite available, sure. It's not a problem. They'd need a medical evaluation to see what level of care they might require."

"Okay." I nod. I can at least let Emmy know she might consider moving David closer. I wonder why she hasn't already.

When she finds him.

I grimace.

"And also to check what kind of insurance they have," Robert goes on. "Now if it's someone dependent on Medicaid or something, it's harder. We have to assign a certain number of Medicaid beds to be compliant and equal opportunity, and there's a waiting list a mile long. And frankly, my father would try to fudge those numbers a bit to make a larger profit, if you know what I mean."

The man next to me coughs and shifts, looking uncomfortable.

Robert doesn't notice or doesn't care. "And it might depend on whether they are receiving social security and how much that is."

"Fine, fine," I say. "Let’s get back to what we were looking at. Profit centers." Then I look at the accountants. Two of them, the balding man with glasses who looks uncomfortable and his colleague with dark hair who's been running his finger down sheets, his lips moving silently all meeting, but who's now looking up at me.

"Please make sure that any report you show me has the actual number of beds available, and there is never any creative accounting. Am I clear? I'll fire anyone who tries to pull that shit past me."

Robert makes a sound I can't decipher, but I don't get a chance to dwell on it because we dive right into the weeds of numbers. Pages and pages and pages.

By three in the afternoon, after a lunch of delivered sandwiches and pages and pages of more numbers, my eyes are crossing and another headache is brewing.

Suddenly, the phone is buzzing again with an incoming call. From a New York area code.

"Excuse me," I say to the room. "Hello," I answer. There's silence. Ambient noise but no speaking. Then the line goes dead.

David.

Shit.

Of course he hung up, he was expecting Emmy.

I stand, willing him to call back. What if he doesn't call back?

"Anyone know how to reverse look up a phone number?" I ask the room.