Page 100 of My Killer Blind Date

The whole ride, I’m clutching my phone in my lap and my heart is pounding.

All the reasons he might not have showed – or texted – skit through my brain like a news ticker. He got sick. He misplaced his phone. He lost track of time. He confused the dates and thought we agreed on tacos tonight instead of last night …

The car crawls to a stop in front of his building.

Please be home. Please be home, I chant internally as I leap out of the car, barely tossing a ‘thank you’ behind me before slamming the door.

I buzz his apartment and jiggle on my heels while I wait. Nothing. I buzz again, and again. Someone comes out of the building and I scurry in with a breathy ‘thanks,’ take the stairs two at a time to his floor and pound on his door.

‘Liam! Are you in there?’

I put my ear to the door, listening for any sound of life. Just silence. I pound again. ‘Liam?’

A door behind me flings open. ‘Hey, can you quiet down?’ says the same older woman from last time, her hair in a disheveled bun.

I try to sound apologetic. ‘Sorry. But – did the guy who lives here come in or out today?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ There’s a child’s cry from behind her, and with no further ceremony, she closes the door, leaving me alone again.

I try to stifle the panicked feeling that’s clutching at my chest. OK, Margot. Just breathe. Maybe he’s on his way to my place to share whatever he found yesterday? And his phone really did run out of battery? He doesn’t have a key to my apartment, but maybe he’s waiting outside my door as we speak. Yes, that must be it.

I hurry back down the stairs and call another Uber. Screw the expense – I don’t have time to wait for a bus.

I wait on the curb for five minutes before the new Uber pulls up – and it’s the same guy that just dropped me off here.

‘Oh. You again,’ he says.

‘Yeah.’ I climb in. ‘Can you drive fast?’

‘If you’ll give me five stars.’

‘No problem,’ I say as he accelerates.

Twenty minutes later, we’re back at my place. It’s almost eleven now – lunch time, as the grumble in my stomach reminds me – but eating seems impossible until I know where Liam is.

He’s not outside my door. But he is a PI. Could he have picked the lock? I unlock the door with my heart in my throat.

‘Liam?’ I call out as I step inside, even as I register the emptiness. No shoes in the front entry. No sign that anything has moved since I was here a few hours ago.

I close the door behind me. Walk to the center of the living room. For a minute, I stand there, just wanting to cry.

What next? I don’t know where else to look for him. He doesn’t work in a traditional office with coworkers. And I don’t have the names or numbers of any of his friends or family members. I could call Barnett – but Liam hasn’t even been gone for twenty-four hours. He’d think I was jumping the gun. Not to mention, last time I called Barnett, it was to demand Liam’s arrest. Barnett is not going to take me seriously.

I need to think, but my brain feels like an overheated engine.

I’ll eat. That will help me think. It seems almost wrong to stop and take care of myself, but it’s probably smart.

Before heading to the kitchen, I turn on the TV and press play on the next episode of the ocean documentary I had on last night. Immediately, the soothing, familiar voice of the narrator helps calm me. ‘… during their nightly migration, which is the largest synchronous migration in the world, female dragonfish rise to the photic zone, closer to the surface of the water, and during the day, return to the dark depths …’

Since my fridge didn’t spontaneously generate any new, edible food, I stand in the kitchen feeling lost. I close my eyes and try to slow down my heart, which seems determined to race right out of my body, because if something has happened to Liam …

‘… the male dragonfish lack teeth and a digestive system, and do not hunt or eat, but only survive long enough to reproduce, using the energy from their egg yolk …’

I’m just sinking into a slightly calmer state when my phone dings, wreaking immediate havoc on my pulse. I unlock it. Oh my God. It’s Liam.

Sorry I missed your texts. Wasn’t feeling well.

Relief sweeps through me, weakening my knees. For once, I’m glad my instincts were wrong. But right on the heels of the relief comes annoyance. If he wasn’t feeling well, why not go home? Or, hello, text me way earlier, when he knew he wasn’t going to make it?