The rest of the group halted with her as she spotted a familiar figure across the lobby.
Rupert stood beside the concierge desk like a scarecrow someone had stuffed into an Armani suit. His bow tie—usually as crisp as origami—tilted at a defeated angle, and the tendons in his neck twitched as he tapped his foot against the marble floor.
If Rupert had a breaking point, this was probably it. He’d spent the evening trying to corral them as they ignored him—texting, knocking on doors, scrambling to keep sponsors happy—only to find them all missing when he needed them most.TheRound Tablepodcasters weren’t an easy group to control, and Rupertlovedcontrol.
“There you are!” His voice ricocheted across the lobby, making Andi wince. “I’ve been looking all over for you people. Knocking on your doors. Sending text messages. Do you haveanyidea what time it is? Any concept of what tomorrow’s schedule looks like?”
“Rupert—” Andi began, already bracing herself.
But he was in motion, fingers flying as he unraveled laminated schedules from his leather portfolio like a magician pulling scarves from a hat.
“The afternoon question-and-answer at the Performing Arts Center opens its doors at one tomorrow,” he said. “One! That gives you approximately eight hours of sleep, one hour for breakfast, three hours for prep, one hour for transport in weekend traffic, and exactly forty-five minutes for sound check.”
“I remember.” Andi crossed her arms, exhaustion thinning her patience.
He thrust a color-coded timeline into her hands. Bold letters read:Santa Clara—DO NOT DEVIATE.
Rupert had folders for each of them—Mariella already flipping hers open, Ranger accepting his with a grunt, Simmy taking hers with a polite smile.
His eye twitched. “And I saw that woman you were meeting with at dinner—the one who apparently wants your help or something. I overheard snippets of your conversation earlier.”
“And . . .” Andi prompted.
“At what point,” Rupert demanded, “does this tightly constructed schedule include time for—” He flailed his hands, grasping for the words. “Fordetective side quests?”
Mariella dropped into one of the lobby armchairs with an exaggerated sigh. “Rupert, a woman is missing.”
Rupert froze. Then blinked. Then blinked again.
“Missing?” His voice jumped half an octave. “Well—that’s terrible—but not our concern. Our concern is the”—he flipped a page—“two thousand fans who purchased tickets for tomorrow’s event, the evening news interview you’ve all conveniently forgotten, and the multi-tiered content schedule I have synced across three time zones!”
Matthew walked past them without looking up from his laptop. “Going to bed. Ping me if he spirals.”
“Spirals?” Rupert sputtered. “I’ll tell you what’s spiraling—my blood pressure! Do you know what our insurance doesn’t cover?” He jabbed a finger at the group. “Acts of vigilantism!”
Simmy stepped forward, her presence calm and steady. “We’re not being vigilantes, Rupert. We’re helping someone look for her sister.”
Rupert made a noise like a stepped-on chihuahua. “Oh, yes—just helping.That’s what you said in Portland when that woman tried to hand you evidence about her neighbor and we ended up with a SWAT team!”
“That was a misunderstanding,” Ranger rumbled.
“A misunderstanding,” Rupert snapped, eyes bulging, “that cost me three bottles of Xanax and a gourmet apology basket!”
Andi rubbed her temples. They had this conversation far too often, and it was getting old. “Rupert, we’re not ignoring the schedule. We just?—”
She stopped.
Duke’s posture—relaxed one second—shifted with the precision of a soldier hearing a tripwire snap. The easy lines of his body tightened. His head turned slightly, eyes sharpening, the air around him changing from casual to combat-ready.
“Duke?” Andi murmured.
He didn’t answer.
His gaze locked on something across the lobby.
Andi followed his line of sight—and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.
CHAPTER
