When I can’t instantly put eyes on Lily, I weave toward the back.
A waitress, balancing too many plates on her arm, walks through the swinging door, and glances up. It’s Hannah, who typically works the same shifts with Lily. “Noah?”
My breath is uneven, my voice raw. “I’m looking for Lily. Is she—” I swallow.
There’s a clattering of silverware and Hannah says, “Think she went on break. Is everything okay? What’s going on?”
Ignoring the low twangy drone of the radio, I push through the door into the kitchen. My boots scuff against the linoleum while my pulse roars when I don’t spot her.
Mitch rounds the corner, his face falling when he sees me.
“Lily?”
He shrugs, but gestures with a thumb over his shoulder. “Went out back for break I think.”
I jog toward the back door, avoiding the looks from the kitchen staff, and push through.
The moment I spot her car without her in it, my stomach drops.
It’s parked at an awkward angle. The driver’s side door is cracked open just enough for the dome light to spill out and blend with the fading shadows of dusk that stretch over the cracked pavement.
As I quicken my pace, it all feels wrong.
Then I see it.
Her bag.
That old hiking backpack she carts around with her everywhere.
The contents are scattered haphazardly across the asphalt—her phone face-up and shattered, ChapStick rolling back and forth in the stormy wind, her notebook sprawled out, the pages wrinkled and crushed under her keys. Loose change glints under the body of her car, tiny specks sprinkled on the dark pavement.
Lily.
I crouch down, hands shaking as I pick up her journal, tucking the damaged pages back inside and shutting the book, only to cradle it to my chest. “Lil?” My voice barely carries over the muggy night air.
The sirens on Main Street come faster, and I know I need to get out of here. Before Paul has his backup.
A chill slithers down my spine, and my mind races, throwing possibilities at me faster than I can shove them away. I turn in a circle, scanning the dimming area.
She was here. A minute, maybe ten, ago.
I sweep the parking lot.
Tire tracks—faint but undeniable.
It could be anyone,I think to myself. But what choice do I have other than to assume?
They start near where her car is parked and arc sharply toward the back road out of here.
The tracks are dark, the way they get when someone slams the gas instead of easing out.
A cold knot tightens in my gut.
I follow them with my eyes, tracing their path until they vanish.
Then I run to my truck.
Chapter 28
