This Story Might Save Your Life(7)

Joining Mallory at the window, I run my hands along the frame. At the top right corner is a white plastic sensor, which gives me an idea. Mallory follows me upstairs and hovers at my shoulder as I tap at the alarm system control panel. It doesn’t respond. “That’s … huh. It’s off.”

Mallory presses a button on the side and it flashes to life. We wait for the main screen to load and follow the prompts to view all recent recordings.

There’s nothing from the past twenty-four hours. We exchange a frown.

“Maybe they took another meeting with our lawyers?” Mallory suggests.

I concede this is possible, though Xander usually handles that stuff alone.

She pulls up the number for their office and sets the phone to speaker. As it rings, I whisper, “I’ll try Joy’s parents, just in case.”

She nods, and I trudge down the stairs. I have no intention of calling Joy’s parents. She sent them on a transatlantic cruise out of London for their fortieth wedding anniversary; if I’ve got my dates right they’re in the middle of nowheresville right now. Instead, there’s something I need to check before I properly lose my cool.

I hear a chipper woman pick up on Mallory’s phone as I deposit myself at Joy’s computer. Joy recently changed her password in homage to our Happy Days namesakes here at TSMSYL. I key it in—potsierichiefonzie, no spaces, no caps—and run a search on all recent audio recordings. A list comes up, and I quickly toggle through it for anything Joy might have saved last night.

Soon, I’ve searched the hard drive, the cloud, the trash, Joy’s email. There are no files from last night anywhere, by any name. The discovery—or lack thereof—makes me so lightheaded I have to step outside into the wind.

“No one’s heard from them,” Mallory says, joining me several minutes later, adding that she also called our merch manager and research assistant. “I checked our socials too.”

The mention of our socials adds another prickly layer to my concern. “And?”

“Nothing.”

I need more. “Nothing from…?”

“You-know-who? No.” She scans my face. “What are you not telling me?”

In the six months since Mallory joined the team, I’ve observed her relationship with Xander as an anthropologist might study a new species. Do they look like siblings? Undeniably. Sound like siblings? Sometimes, when Mallory pulls her Danish accent out from retirement. But do they act like siblings? Still open for debate. If I didn’t know better I’d say they were fair-haired dignitaries playing nice for politics’ sake, but maybe they’re chummier when I’m not around. In which case, Mallory might be able to offer some insight.

Hoping I don’t sound as anxious as I feel, I ask, “How has Joy seemed to you lately? Has she seemed different at all?”

“Why?”

I’m still considering my response when Richie sprints across the yard, barking his Look at that! bark. He’s so loud, and so adamant, that Mallory and I get up to inspect. We find Joy’s neighbor Carlotta in a colorful apron on the other side of their shared metal fence. She calls out to us when she sees us, waving a pair of gardening gloves over her head.

I’ve become moderately acquainted with Carlotta since Joy and Xander bought this house. After two decades of serving Los Angeles as a criminal court judge, she took an early retirement five years ago when she was diagnosed with leukemia. Joy’s been helping her with her garden since the cancer recurred last fall. She’s now in the maintenance-chemo phase of treatment, and as we approach, I note puffy moons beneath tired eyes.

“Glad I ran into you,” she says, downy white hair fluttering in the wind. “I just picked my weight in produce, and I need you to take some of it off my hands. What do you like? Beans? Romaine? Eggplants? Carrots?”

“That all sounds great, thanks,” Mallory says with a tentative smile. “But first—have you seen Joy or Xander this morning?”

Carlotta tucks her gloves into her apron and shakes her head. “Can’t say I have.”

“What about Potsie?” I add.

“Is something wrong?”

I explain about the bathroom window, the unanswered calls.

“That’s not good.” She glances up at her house, a forest-green wood-sided home built into the hill, and then down the far end of her property, which dips fenceless into a ravine. “Come to think of it, I’ve seen the coyote a few times”—she pronounces it as two syllables: ki-yote—“but no Potsie. Maybe they’re walking him?”

The screen door opens on her back porch, and her partner emerges with a small-toothed grin. As with every other time I’ve spoken with him, he’s flaunting his bronze abs by way of a fully unbuttoned shirt. The only visible hair on his person is atop his head—silver and close cut with a deep widow’s peak.

“Emil.” Carlotta beckons him over. “They’re looking for Joy and Xander.”

A former Hollywood stunt double, Emil is now an elite personal trainer who dabbles in vintage car restoration—a unique trifecta that lends itself to the title “Master of All Bodyworks.” Or so his business card says. I find him best in small doses, but Xander seems to like him; they train together twice a week. I explain the situation once more when he joins us at the fence.