“I have no idea.”
“Really?” The two men had known each other. Lukas spent a lot of time with Xavier after the disappearances, offering support and legal advice. Xavier had contacted Lukas more recently for advice on politically related matters. That ongoing relationship even after the divorce might explain it.
“Just another game by Xavier.” Lukas glanced at Everly, as if weighing whether he should dive into a new topic now or wait. “Speaking of games...”
Oh, shit. “I’m going to hate whatever you say next.”
He nodded. “About Gabriel Harbison, the kid writing the book.”
“Not exactly a kid, but yeah.”
Lukas crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. His voice stayed calm and even, but his body language closed up. “I looked into him like I promised and nothing.”
For a moment I was too lost focusing on Lukas’s hands, those long fingers, the strength of them, to pick up on whatever hint he’d dropped. But he had my attention now. “What does that mean?”
“It looks like Gabe didn’t exist on social media or anywhere else until a few months ago.”
No, no, no.
“How is that possible?” But I knew. Part of me did.
“A name change... or Gabe might not be Gabe.”
I stayed quiet. Sat there and wallowed in my growing panic.
Lukas filled in the final blank. “Which makes me ask again, could Gabe really be Noah?”
All I knew was that someone controlled this situation and had all the answers, and it wasn’t us.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hanna
Two hours. No response from Jeremy. No indication he’d even read my texts.
My anxiety hit the explosion point. To keep busy I’d run to the store and grabbed one of those self-installed alarm systems. Years ago, at the insurance company’s insistence, I added security cameras for the doors to the café. I’d skipped the residence part and needed to fix that.
I had a camera for the front door of the house and planned to aim another right at the mailbox to catch my secret postman as he or she dropped off the next annoying envelope. Because there would be more. I could sense it.
The opened boxes littered the stairs up to the apartment. Crumpled pages of instructions peeked out the top of the closest one. The motion sensor setup lying at my feet remained untouched. Forget about buying a video doorbell and trusting that to work. If I was going to turn my house into a giant monitor Iwasn’t going to half-ass it. Go all-ass or no-ass. That might be my new mantra.
I picked up the instructions and stared at them. Again. The lines of print jumped around. I couldn’t concentrate or think or, apparently, read.
“Hanna?”
I turned fast enough to slip off the step. I stood less than a foot in the air but the thud of my heels against the hard ground vibrated through me.
“Stella?”
She stood there, looking cautious and unsure—two things she never was—holding a bottle of wine in a death grip. The potential gift kept me from yelling.
I tried a softer touch despite the nerves firing and ricocheting around inside me. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you might need some company.” She held up the bottle of wine and shook it.
“I’m thinking you don’t believe I have friends.” True, not many. Being a younger-than-average parent for so many years, always out of sync with the priorities of my peers, and an unrepentant workaholic derailed fun activities like girls’ weekends and dating.
I only missed one of those two things.
