“Did Dow have any relatives or friends who might be willing to answer a few questions?”
She cast her eyes to the side. “I think I remember him mentioning a sister. But I never met her.”
“I’ll look into that,” Evan said.
“Okay.” Feeling troubled, Noelle turned the page. The week she’d gone missing. She had the insane urge to slam the book shut, as though opening it to that particular day could conjure malevolent spirits who might shuttle them both back to that moment and make them relive it once more. She reached out, grabbing the drink she’d left on the desk and taking one long sip before placing it on the floor at her feet.
Evan picked up his drink from the floor and took a long swallow. That week. It lived and it breathed. It took up physical space in her mind somehow, a place where her cells still quivered, and she figured his did as well. How could it not? “I went missing this day,” she said, tapping March fourteenth. “But he didn’t know it yet. Paula is the one who called to let him know she was worried. She’s the one who called the police.” There were no notes regarding her disappearance or what he’d been experiencing that day. But he’d obviously been sick with worry, so much so that it brought on a massive heart attack and he’d dropped right on his living room rug. Paula had found him later that day when his calls had gone unanswered. She’d had a hunch something was wrong and used the key they kept hidden on the porch to go inside. He was already cold by that point. There was no chance of saving him.
“André Baudelaire,” Evan read after flipping a page back. Noelle found the place where her father had written the name, followed by a phone number. Evan picked up his phone from the bed and quickly did a search as Noelle took another sip of her drink. “Purveyor of antiques, collectibles, and fine jewelry,” Evan read. “He’s still in business. His shop is in MidTown.”
“What would my father have been doing at an antique shop?” Noelle mused aloud.
“Not a collector?”
She let out a mostly humorless laugh. “Did you see what was in his storage container? Not even close.”
“Selling something?”
She chewed at the inside of her cheek briefly. “Anything he had of any value he sold after my mom died.” She didn’t have to tell him why. He already knew. Even the gorgeous antique ring that had once belonged to her mother’s grandmother was gone. It’d been sold to pay for the lawyer’s fees that came from suing Evan’s father for wrongful death. And losing.
“Well, we can stop in to see Mr. Baudelaire tomorrow, too, if you’re game.”
She turned the page of her father’s calendar, her chest constricting as the pages grew empty. She sighed, shut it, and placed it aside as she picked up her drink and drained the last of it. Something about those last few weeks was . . . off. Maybe it was part feeling, but it was also that he’d seemed to be meeting with people he didn’t ordinarily meet with. So . . . yes. “I’m game,” she confirmed.
She set her glass down and lay back on the bed. Evan did the same, falling next to her, their feet on the floor as they stared at the ceiling. She didn’t look at him, but she felt his warmth. It was a little odd to be with him in a hotel room. Not only because she’d never imagined any circumstances where she would be, but also because the last time they were in one together . . . they’d made Callie.
A different kind of warmth spread through her, brought on by the alcohol, she figured. But also because of him. She turned her head to find he was already staring at her. “Oh,” she said. “Hi.” Then she giggled, and it sounded so unlike her that she giggled again. He was smiling, too, and as their gazes caught, they both went serious.
“Hi,” he said.
She turned away first, biting her lip. Not a good idea. She was still attracted to him. But she’d felt that physical attraction in South Carolina, too, and sort of taken it in stride. Who wouldn’t be attracted to Evan Sinclair? Plus, it’d been a long, long time since she’d been with a man. She was probably just a little buzzed and a lot desperate. She nearly giggled again but swallowed it down. What she hadn’t expected was the yearning that was solely for him. Evan. That deep-down emptiness that somehow still carried his name. She’d felt it blossom to life almost the moment she’d laid eyes on him again. Worse still, she saw something similar in his eyes too. This time, however, it felt less . . . grasping, she supposed was a good enough word. Less all encompassing. Less dysfunctional. Which was good. But that had been achieved over long years and much distance. They couldn’t go back and do something that would make it hard to separate again.