She has never really written out a list before—not like this—but she did for her wedding. And she takes great joy in checking off each item.
Maybe this will be the start of something new. Maybe she’ll become the kind of wife who writes out lists and puts them on the refrigerator under a crafty little magnet.
But probably not.
56
On Friday, Ivy arrives in Sacramento at nine in the morning. She heads straight to Oblivion, the day spa, where they wrap her in a plush robe and make her a cappuccino. They also take care of her bags.
The sequined wedding dress is carefully wrapped, her suitcase double-checked no less than ten times. Everything on her list is accounted for, but that’s exactly why she doesn’t trust it. Not on the list, not in her bag.
She tries not to think about that. Just before she lies down for her facial, she texts Wes.
Made it to the spa, see you this afternoon ?
She still hasn’t answered Heath’s texts, and she doesn’t do it now. After the weekend, when she’s a married woman, she will have a lot of time to tell him.
After the facial: the mani-pedi combo. Ballet pink nail polish on her toes and fingers.
Her hair doesn’t take long—just a few highlights around her face and a blow-dry. Last but not least: a massage. It lulls her into a daze, and she floats up to the register to pay her bill. Doesn’t pay attention to the final total.
Because it’s her wedding, for God’s sake. Skimping is not an option.
Neither are negative thoughts. Whenever Karen or the investigation enters her mind, she thinks of the Chinese word for no: bù. She repeats it as she leaves Oblivion and drives to the airport.
The flight is at two, and she pulls into the long-term parking lot at twelve fifteen. Plenty of time. Compared to San Francisco, the airport in Sacramento is small. No need to rush through security. Even taking her time, she arrives at the gate by twelve forty-five. She sits down with a magazine and a bottle of water and checks her phone.
Again.
Still nothing from Wes. Over the past couple of hours, all thoughts of the wedding and the case have been slowly replaced by the fact that she hasn’t heard from him at all. Not once today. A bad feeling creeps in, wondering if he is ghosting her again. Her future husband.
Ivy has been trying to make herself comfortable with the word husband for days, ever since they decided to go to Vegas. Doesn’t quite feel comfortable yet, but it will.
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.