Page 3 of Love What's Left
The gold strands of Mom’s hair, threaded liberally with white, glint in the firelight as she lowers herself onto the leather sofa beside me. She places a hand on my back. “You should go on up and get some rest.”
“Not yet.”
“Gabriel.” She hesitates, then continues firmly, “It’s been thirty-seven days.”
“I’m aware.”Of every hour and every minute.The first forty-eight hours were the magic window, and I hadn’t even known she was missing for twelve of them. Every day since means a greater likelihood that we’re looking for a corpse, not a captive.
“Statistically—”
“Sydney has never been a statistic. She’s smart, and she’s a fighter.” I shake my head. “She’ll have found a way to survive.”
“I’m not saying to give up looking for answers, but you can rest while our investigators handle it. Tell your brother and Franki they can go home. I love having all of you under one roof and seeing my new grandson every day, but Henry has obligations as a new father.”
More guilt to spread on in another wafer-thin layer over my soul. “Did he tell you he doesn’t want to be here?”
She rubs her eyes tiredly. “Of course not. But you’re pushing yourself too hard, and he’s worried about you. You’ve been out looking for her twenty of the last twenty-four hours alone. You should be in bed.”
“I’d only stare at the ceiling.”And imagine the hell she’s in.
“Have you thought any more about what the police said—”
“My wife didn’tleaveme,” I explode, standing abruptly, then pacing in front of the fireplace. “If she had, she’d have told me why, probably with a PowerPoint presentation. She’d have accessed her bank accounts. She’d never let her friends worry like this, let alone me. She sure as fuck would have taken her cat.”
Mom doesn’t reprimand me for swearing, and I barely notice I’ve done it.
“None of her behavior that weekend was normal. What she did to her lab wasn’t in character either.” She wrings her hands. “Did you check for secret accounts? If she was planning an exit strategy, then maybe she didn’t need to pack a bag.”
I go still. “Stop.” She was coerced. Or it wasn’t her. Nothing else makes sense.
“Honey,I don’t mean that as a criticism of either of you. But the way you two started . . . it wasn’t good. I know you loved each other, but maybe . . .”Maybe it wasn’t enough.Her unspoken words hang in the air between us.
My brain buzzes with muffled static—too much emotion, exhaustion, and a continuous rush of adrenaline and dread. Iwishmy wife had left me. I’d take a torn-up heart over any of the other options.
A knock on the doorframe jolts me from my spiral. My head of security, Kurt, still dressed, as I am, in most of his gear from our last fruitless search, holds up an iPad housed in a high-impact black case. “It’s likely nothing,” he warns, “but your orders are to let you know of any anomalies. The security cameras and alarm system are on the fritz in a warehouse in New Jersey owned by one of your companies. It’s a new acquisition, slated for demo to make way for a medical plaza. The security guard on duty isn’t responding to a request for an update.”
“Let’s go. Alert the team.” I stride for the door.
Mom follows and latches on to my forearm. “It’s not her, honey,” she says gently. “Call the local police to look into it and go to bed. Send some of our people out, but you have to stop jumping at every shadow. You can’t live like this.”
I remove her hand from my arm and kiss her forehead before looking into her eyes. “I’ll sleep after I check.”
My brother Henry, already wearing his boots and Kevlar, joins Kurt in the doorway. “He sent a video to our Tip Line with a message: It’s time.”
I tear Henry’s phone from his hand, my heart pounding in my ears. Five seconds of footage plays on a loop, but if it weren’t for the strobe effect of a malfunctioning fluorescent light and a dust mote floating on the left side of the screen, it would look like a still shot. Sydney, battered, filthy, far too thin, and wearing the red dress she had on the day she disappeared, lies on a crackedconcrete floor. Her breath fogs in the cold. Barely visible, but there.Please, God, don’t let it be my imagination. “It’s real?”
“It’s real.”
“Can Ben track it?” I push the fear and adrenaline into a mental box, so I can think.
Henry shakes his head. “He’s trying, but it just came in. He says it’s coming back as a small private residence in Queens, but he believes it’s a spoof.”
Shit.Shit.I stare at the video and crank the volume up. There’s an echoing quality to the ambient sounds. Wind whistles the way it would through a tunnel or in an airport hangar. A clang of metal repeats in the near distance.
“Are we headed for Queens or New Jersey?” Kurt asks.
This could be a warehouse. The room surrounding her isn’t lit well enough to make out details, but it could be. If we chase a red herring while she dies somewhere in a Queens basement or garage—But he’s been too smart so far. He wouldn’t send something without obfuscating the IP address unless it was a trap.
I open the video in editing and crank up the brightness but get nothing usable. “Divide the team. Kurt, you lead one to the Queens location. Henry, you and I and the others head for the warehouse. Contact local law enforcement for both. They may be able to get there, first.”
