Our bedroom, empty.
I grab my phone, it rings twice.
“Boss?”
“Eyes on my wife?” I ask Romero as I continue to scan through feeds.
“She’s not on the grounds, so she’s inside still.”
I hang up and leave my office.
“Vasilisa!” I call out. Panic clawing at my throat.
“Vasilisa!” I bound the steps two at a time making my way to our bedroom.
A crash sounds.
The kitchen.
I run back downstairs.
“Dea!” I reach the kitchen and hear a soft groan from the pantry.
I freeze. The world narrows to the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears as I move toward the pantry.
The door is partially open, light spilling from inside.
“Vasilisa?” I push the door wider, finding my wife on her hands and knees, surrounded by fallen cans and jars. A step stool has tipped over beside her.
“Santo! I was just...” she trails off, looking at the mess around her.
“Looking for something?” I ask, crossing my arms as I lean against the doorframe. My heart rate slows now that I’ve found her safe, though the panic leaves a bitter aftertaste.
She quickly blows hair from her face as she scrambles to gather the mess. “Just looking for... um... cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon?”
“Yes.” She nods vigorously, not meeting my eyes. “For my hot chocolate.”
“The cinnamon is on the spice rack,” I say, pointing to the wall-mounted rack clearly visible from where she kneels. “Where it always is.”
Her cheeks flush pink as rubs her elbow. “Well, I thought we might be out.”
I crouch down beside her, gently taking her arm to examine it. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my pride,” she mutters, finally looking up. Her cheeks are flushed, blue eyes guilty. “And maybe my elbow a little.”
“Dea,” I say softly, tilting her chin up so she has to look at me. “What are you really looking for?”
Those gorgeous eyes widen, and for a moment, I think she might tell me the truth. Then she bites her lip. “Christmas presents,” she whispers. “I was trying to find where you hide them.”
“In the pantry?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “With the food?”
She shrugs, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “You’re unpredictable.”
“Not that unpredictable.” I help her to her feet, steadying her when she wobbles. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?”
She sighs, shoulders slumping. “My ring,” she whispers. “I can’t find it anywhere, Santo. I’m so sorry.”
