Page 70 of Iridescent
I cut through the dining room and into the kitchen. The counters gleam. The sink is empty. No glass by the tap. No abandoned mug. No sign that she has spent the evening here at all.
I can’t think straight. The entire day has already been hell, but the dread taking hold of me now is worse.
I sweep a hand through my hair and head for the stairs with a muttered curse, trying to ignore the panic needling at the edges of my mind. Maybe she went upstairs early. Or she is still avoiding me.
The motion lights come alive one after another as I take the stairs two at a time, washing the upper hall in soft gold. My shoes strike the wood hard enough to echo, and the sound seems too loud in the silence wrapped around the house.
Upstairs, I yank open the door to our bedroom. “Yara?”
I stop in the doorway and stare for a beat too long, as if looking harder might change what is in front of me. The bed is made. The blinds are drawn back from the floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing the vast night sky and a silver slice of moon over the Mediterranean, but none of it registers.
The room is empty. Too neat.
My gaze sweeps the room, searching for a clue. That’s when I notice the walk-in closet door left ajar. I stride forward and pull it open. Inside, one of the overhead lights flicks on automatically. Her clothes hang in immaculaterows, color-coded and neat, but there is a gap on one of the racks.
My blood turns to ice.
The weekend suitcase that always sits on the shelf above her dresses is gone. In its place, a faint outline marks where it usually rests.
Cold disbelief moves through me. It can’t be. I leave the room and check the terrace first, then the small sitting room off the east wing where she sometimes reads when she wants to be alone, then the fitness studio where she takes her virtual classes.
Nothing.
No sign of her anywhere.
She’s gone.
Panic flashes hot beneath my skin. Think. Maybe she only went out to clear her head.
But with a suitcase?
No.
I pull my phone from my pocket and call her. One ring. Two. Voicemail. I end the call, leave a message, and send a text. Then another. Neither delivers.
My lungs lock. This has happened before. Once, she went out with Colette and forgot to mention they would be back late. I came home to an empty house and nearly lost my damn mind before I found out where she was.
The list of people I can call is short. Yara doesn’t make friends easily, not since we moved to the Riviera. Even at galas, she stays at my side or keeps to herself. She is polite when she has to be, distant when she can be, and never interested in playing the social games the rest of them seem to live for.
Last time, I was seconds away from calling her family when she rang me from Colette’s phone and told me hers had died. She was fine. Just out later than I expected.
Maybe this is that again.
“Dammit.” I spin on my heel and dial Colette as I head back downstairs.
I am halfway down when I nearly run straight into her.
Colette is hovering at the foot of the staircase, her hands twisted together, her face pinched with worry.
“Colette,” I snap, harsher than I mean to. “Why are you here alone? Whereis my wife?”
She flinches and steps back.
I don’t care if I was harsh. I need to find my wife.
Colette is the only person in this house Yara speaks to outside of necessity. If anyone knows where she is, it will be her.
She must have seen her leave.
