Chapter Four

At the Cracker Barrel, Emile found exactly what he expected—nothing. Cameron Snow wasn’t there and hadn’t been there. All the wait staff knew Emile from his visits there with Glaz, and he talked to each of them, showing a picture that he’d found on Snow’s website and saved to his phone. They had all been on duty the entire morning and were very sure they hadn’t seen him. Barbara Ann from the Shell station was the only one who had come in for takeout coffee, and she had gotten a sausage biscuit, too.

It would have been better if Amy had stayed in the car, but there was no stopping her from going in. As Emile questioned person after person, Amy deflated a little more and grew a little more demoralized—and shocked.

But Emile wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t even surprised. He’d begun to put it all together. He hadn’t come up with an answer, but this man was not dead, hurt, kidnapped, or detained. He was gone.

Maybe. Or maybe he’d never been here in the first place. Amy claimed he was her fiancé, but she wore no ring. Maybe she was delusional. His gut told him that wasn’t true, but life had taught him that his gut wasn’t very reliable.

He turned to Amy. “What would you like to do?” Because he might have shortcomings and plenty of them, but he damned sure wasn’t going to leave a woman standing in Cracker Barrel in the middle of all those cast iron cooking pots and T-shirts with writing on them.

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to do. Should I go back to Piece by Piece, so he can find me when he turns up? I know the police won’t do anything yet.”

“Maybe you could call his parents? Do they live here?” That would be great. Maybe they would come get her.

“No. They were killed in a boating accident the year Cameron played for Kansas City. That’s why he had such a bad year.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“No. An only child. I don’t know anyone to call.”

What kind of man had no friends? Or maybe he did—parents and siblings, too, but Amy didn’t know them because she didn’t really know him.

Amy covered her face with her hands. “What I really wish is that I could go home.”

An excellent idea. “Why can’t you? I will take you there. Didn’t you say you lived in Nashville?”

“Yes. In Sound Town. Star View Towers.”

Well, that was interesting. “That’s where I live.”

“Really? I’ve never seen you.”

“A big building. Lots of people. What floor?”

“Eight. Unit D. You?”

“The fourteenth floor,” he answered.

“What unit?”

“All of it.”

“Ah.”

“Let me take you there. Perhaps Cameron went back there. Maybe he forgot something?”

She looked hopeful. “Do you really think so?”

Emile did not. Either Cameron didn’t exist—at least in Amy’s world—or he was in the wind.

He smiled and put a hand on Amy’s arm. “Come. Let’s get you home.”

• • •

Home. Somehow, Amy thought if she could just get home, everything would be all right. Even if Cameron hadn’t gone back there, maybe there would be a note or some kind of clue.

Maybe he’d had a client emergency and he’d had to return home to deal with it—or maybe even fly to the West Coast or New England. Probably California. His biggest client, Reynolds Fallon, played for the 49ers and Cameron had been spending a lot of time there lately. Maybe he’d left her a voice mail or email telling her he’d pick her up later, but her phone had gone wonky. He wouldn’t know that.

Yes. If she could just get home, even if he wasn’t there, she could check her email on her laptop or tablet. Next she’d get her cell phone straightened out. Then everything would make sense again.

Maybe. Or maybe she’d just drink a bottle of wine and pass out on the couch. Sofa. Cameron didn’t like for her to say couch. He thought sofa sounded classier.

Emile pulled into the underground parking garage. Maybe she should ask him to drive by their reserved parking spots. But no. He was already pulling into his own spot—which was right by the lobby doors. She could still ask him. He’d do it, but why bother? The real answers were inside.

He helped her out of the car and held the lobby door for her.

“How did you get such a good parking place?” Amy asked. “Ours are all the way on the other side.”

“Sometimes things just happen. Sometimes it’s good.” He shrugged. “Sometimes not so much.”

That was the truth—especially that last part and especially today.

Amy preceded Emile into the lobby. She had been in many luxury condos, but she’d never wanted to live in one. She was more of a house-with-a-porch-and-yard person, a house like the one she’d grown up in. But Cameron loved all the amenities—the fitness center, Olympic-size pool, in-building restaurants and shops, and around the clock security and concierge service. Those things just gave Amy the feeling that she was staying in an overgrown hotel.

Speaking of the concierge—Lila was behind the desk today. The lobby was relatively quiet, and Lila looked their way immediately. Maybe she had a sixth sense, or maybe it was the noise they made on the marble floor. Probably the floor. That’s why they’d picked it. No sneaking.

Lila looked surprised—probably because they were together. “Mr. Giroux. Ms. Callahan?” There was a definitely a question in Lila’s voice and narrowing of her eyes when she said Amy’s name. “Is everything in order?”

“Of course.” No, Lila, it’s not. Can you find Mr. Snow for me? He says the concierge staff at Star View Towers never fails. So produce him, speedy quick. Please.

“Bonjour, Lila,” Emile said. “I like the pumpkins that you have used to decorate. And those yellow flowers. Nice.”

She smiled. “Mums. Thank you, but I didn’t do it. We contract that out.”

“Ah, Lila! I thought you did everything here.” Despite his running commentary, Amy had to give Emile credit. He never slowed his steps but continued to move them toward the elevator.

Amy beat Emile to the keypad and punched in her code—except it didn’t work. She tried again. Nothing. Credit card. Debit card. Phone. Now elevator security code. Her heart began to pound, which was a comfort. At least her heart was still working.

“Let me,” Emile said quietly as he punched in his own code. The elevator door opened immediately.

When the doors opened again on her floor, Amy turned to Emile. “I can’t thank you enough, but I can take it from here.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Can you?” He followed her out of the elevator. Amy had the feeling there was no stopping him, so she didn’t even try.

Please, let Cameron be there. Please, let this all be some silly misunderstanding. She reached into her bag and brought out her key fob, but just she was about to unlock the door—with Emile right behind her—the door swung open.

Cameron! But no. It was a member of the Star View maintenance staff who stepped out. Shane. It said so on his shirt.

“What’s going on?” Amy asked.

“Just going for another gallon of paint.”

“Paint? I didn’t ask for my condo to be painted.”

“We always paint when people move out,” Shane said.

“Move out? We haven’t moved out!” Could she have taken a wrong turn and gone to the wrong place? Even after living here over a year? She checked the small brass plate on the door with the unit number. No. This was home. Wasn’t it?

“Could have fooled me,” Shane said.

“But there has been a mistake.” Amy said the words just as Emile walked past her, opened the door, and entered.

Shane forgotten, Amy stepped inside—to emptiness, except for buckets of paint, drop cloths, and men on ladders.

Her mouth went dry and her head spun.

“My furniture is gone,” she said to Emile. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Can we help you, ma’am?” This man—Royce—was older than Shane.

She shook her head. “This is my home. I don’t understand what’s going on.” Even in the unlikely event that Cameron had decided to have the place painted, they wouldn’t have moved the furniture out. “Where is my furniture?”

Royce came down off the ladder. “I don’t know anything about that. We got a work order last week to paint the whole condo oasis beige, like we always do when a place is going up for sale.”

“But it’s not for sale.”

Royce shook his head. “Ma’am, I think you need to go speak to Mr. Fairly.”

“But my things . . . ” She was going to be sick. This was crazy. She moved toward the kitchen.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. If there’s been a mistake, the office downstairs will straighten it out.”

She couldn’t leave. Why should she? This was where she lived.

“Royce, my friend.” Up until now, Emile had been silent. He removed his wallet, but he didn’t offer Royce money. Instead, he handed him a small laminated card. “Season tickets for two for all Sound home games. Be my guest.”

Royce looked skeptical. “What are the strings?”

“None. The tickets are yours for the taking, though I hope you will let her look around. Ten minutes. No more. She won’t take anything.”

“Well,” Royce looked longingly at the card, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. There’s nothing to take.”

And there wasn’t. Not a tea kettle or her favorite mug. No laptop, tablet, toothbrush, or one single shoe or garment—hers or Cameron’s. All the beautiful wrapping paper and ribbons she loved to collect—gone, and with them the special pens, stencils, stickers, and rubber stamps that she used to create her bullet journals. Someone had taken it all—including all her bullet journals, except the one in her purse.

But who? Who would do such a thing? Who would even want it?

She stood in the empty bedroom—the one she’d shared with Cameron, at least when he was home.

She felt Emile’s hands on her shoulders before she heard him.

“Come along, chérie. Let’s go down to the office.”

And she let him lead her away.