Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I call out for her. “Arya?”
Listening, I hear nothing. It’s too quiet.
Rolling from the bed, I wonder if she’s upset about the spanking. Over the past few days, I gave her plenty of warnings. And afterward, there was nothing to suggest she was struggling with it. Sometimes though, daytime casts things in a different light.
I walk out to the living room and immediately notice that the sleeper couch is no longer a bed, and the girl and several of her suitcases are gone.
God damn it.
I check the security feed. She walked out alone and loaded the car by herself, a few feet from where Casanova was prowling around. Bad girl with bad ideas.
Walking to the kitchen, I spot a note on the counter.
Erik, thank you for having me stay with you.
Take care, Arya
So her way of dealing with a problem is to disappear? That won’t fly for a number of reasons. Which she’s going to find out when I catch up to her.
I run a hand through my hair, scowling. There are no messages from her on my phone, but there’s a voicemail from Uncle Joe.
Great.
I hit the play button.
“Saw the paper, lad. Declan’s uncle dead, aye? And his aunt dead as well. Seems someone’s targeting the Heyworth clan. I presume all’s well with you, and that you’re steering Javier’s daughter clear of dangerous situations? Ring me when you have a chance. Considering the body count around there, I’ll take an update.”
Declan’s aunt is dead as well? I retrieve my tablet and open the Foxgrove newspaper first. Sure enough, the front-page story announces,Heyworth heiress and husband found dead.
My eyes scan the copy. Unlike Brock Stowe who was found on the construction site a few blocks from the waterfront, his wife’s body washed ashore. Just like Isobel Long, one of Casanova’s victims.
I need to speak with Declan and Shane, so we can sort out how this changes things. First though, I need to track down my nightingale.
After getting dressed, I go to Octavia Muñiz’s place. It takes some persistent knocking to get her to answer the door. She’s wearing flannel pajamas covered in strawberries and looks cute and edible, as per usual.
“Hey, hi. Um…” she stutters.
“Is she here?”
“No.” She bites her lower lip and glances around as though she’s hiding something. Could be Arya.
“Step back. I’m coming in.”
“Oh—okay.” Wide-eyed, she backs up.
I stalk in, glancing around. The living room is a chaotic jumble of throw blankets, pillows, sheet music, instruments, and empty margarita cans. No signs of the diva.
“Do you know where she is?”
She licks her lips, and her eyes dart around. “Arya, right?”
“Indeed.”
Her small hand flips over so it’s palm up. “She said she doesn’t want to be found by certain people.”
“And you think that includes me?”
Her voice takes on a slightly childish lilt. “She said it does.”
