ThatI’vedone something wrong.
“Did she leave straightaway with Daphne?” My voice has gone hoarse with worry.
“Went into your office with the key.”
“Yes, I gave her the key. How—how long was she in here?”
“A minute. Maybe three, tops. Not long.”
I spin in a slow circle on shaky legs.
What on earth could she have?—
It takes a moment to register the blinking printer light, and the papers haphazardly piled on my desk that should not be there.
With planning the murder mystery on top of my usual work, my office has been a terrible mess, but I picked everything up before dinner.
Dread makes my feet weigh a ton each as I cross the room to my desk.
I spy the first page of the first draft of my script, and everything around me spins in slow motion.
“Did she—did she print this?” I ask Butch.
But she couldn’t have.
Not if she was only in the room for a minute or two.
Not when the script is only on my crotchety, slow, good-luck computer.
Slow or not, it’s what I’ve used since I wroteIn the Weeds.
Not even my boys will touch it. They complain it takes orders before you see the orders that you’ve given it, which puts homework assignments at risk of deletion and the wrong websites at risk of printing.
Which means I must have printed the first draft through some incorrect push of my mouse button or keystroke earlier today.
Bea could not have.
She could not have even pulled the document up on my laptop in two or three minutes, even if she’d known immediately where to look.
Not if Butch’s timing is correct.
But if I accidentally printed it—then she could have picked it up.
I dial Lana without thinking.
“Simon, I have a high level of affection for you due to the fact that you’re a very good co-parent, and for the fact that you got me a sober ride so I could get blitzed, and for an unexpectedly fun evening, and I completely understand how hard it’s been for you to see Bea the past couple weeks, but if you’re calling to tell me one of the boys puked and needs to be picked up, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to handle it. I just got home and I amdeadtired and I don’t know how my mouth is still operating.”
“Have you heard from Bea?”
Silence answers me.
The loud kind of silence.
Not the kind of silence that says she’s fallen asleep.
The kind of silence that says she knows this is not a logical question that I should be asking if everything were perfectly fine in my world.
“Have you heard from Bea?” I repeat.
