A Twisted Love Story(69)

She texts him again: I’m at the gate.

Fifteen minutes later: Are you at the airport yet?

And finally: They’re starting to board.

She tries to call him: straight to voicemail. Calls again: same thing.

She redials, over and over, her messages alternating between panic and fury, right up until they close the plane door.

Bù.

Bù.

Bù.

This. Can’t. Be. Happening.



* * *



—

Ivy bangs on the front door of Wes’s house. Half crying, half full of rage, she flips back and forth by the second. Her throat hurts from screaming. Her head hurts from trying to figure it out. And her heart hurts because it’s cracked in two, broken either because he chose not to show up or because something horrible has happened to him. No idea which one she prefers.

She gives up on the front door, opens the side gate, and heads into the yard. The back door is also locked, and the curtains are drawn, giving her only a sliver of the view inside.

Nothing looks out of place. No body on the floor.

He isn’t at the office—she has already checked—and his car is nowhere. Not at his home, not at Siphon, not in the long-term parking lot at the airport. She checked every row.

Now she walks around his house, searching for an unlocked window. Not a single one. The rock comes next. She breaks a single pane in his back door, not bothering to clear out all the glass before reaching in to unlock it. A sharp edge slices through her skin, on the side of her thumb, but she doesn’t slow down.

Inside, his house looks like it always does. No sign of him, no sign of a struggle. She walks through it, looking for something—anything—that explains why he didn’t show up.

His bed is made. The towel in the bathroom is almost dry, like he had woken up at his usual time and used it hours ago.

She checks his dresser and closet. A few empty hangers, no suitcase. He had definitely packed and taken his bag with him when he left the house. He had planned to meet her in Sacramento.

Knowing he hadn’t been lying relaxes her a tiny bit.

Unless he went somewhere else.

Maybe with Abigail.

She shakes that idea away, refusing to consider it. After wrapping a towel around her hand, she checks the news for car accidents. Hospitals come next. She calls all of them.

“Wes Harmon’s room, please.” She asks this way every time, making the assumption he is there instead of asking. It always makes them check, just like at a hotel.

No luck in Fair Valley, so she expands her search to all the hospitals between here and Sacramento.

Still nothing.

By now, her hand is starting to hurt. She washes out the cut and continues to make calls while searching for a first aid kit.

An idea in the back of her mind starts to grow: Call the police. A logical next step.

Then again, they would probably laugh at her. Left at the proverbial altar? Not their problem.

Maybe your boyfriend flew to the Caribbean with his other girlfriend.

Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do.

Maybe they would be right.

The anger roars back, front and center, making her temples pound. Hard to think, impossible to make a plan. She sits down on Wes’s couch and puts her head between her knees, resisting the urge to start destroying everything. That won’t help find him.

His friends. The real ones, not his coworkers. He doesn’t see them a lot these days, but she could try calling. The problem is, those guys are loyal to Wes, not her, and even if they know something, they aren’t going to tell her.

Probably. But she won’t know unless she tries.

Maybe if she cries enough, one of them will take pity on her. Tell her what’s really happening. It’s worth a shot, because right now it feels like she’s punching in the dark.

Her phone is almost dead, and she races through the house, trying to find a charger. She locates one in the kitchen, in the junk drawer, and scrolls through her address book. Tries to figure out which numbers she has and whether any of them would be helpful.

A plan starts to form in her mind. A list. Try calling his friends first, and if nothing comes from that, she has to call the hospitals again. Maybe he hadn’t been entered into the system yet. Maybe he had been unconscious and rushed into surgery.

She decides on someone Wes has known since college, a guy who also knows Ivy. She is about to call when her phone rings.

The number isn’t familiar.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” a man says. His voice is pleasant, almost soft. “May I speak with Ivy Banks?”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“My name is Bryce Kendrick. I’m an attorney with Clarke, Greenburg, and Kendrick.”

“This is Ivy.”

“Miss Banks, I’m calling in regard to Wes Harmon,” he says. “He asked me to call you.”

“Where is Wes? Is he okay?”

He pauses before answering, which makes her head feel like it’s going to implode.

“This morning,” he says, “Wes was arrested by the Fair Valley police.”

“Arrested? For what?” The question is automatic—it comes out before she can stop it. Because she already knows.

“Joey Fisher,” the lawyer says.