Hanging up the phone, I keep running and dial Silas.
“What?” He grunts in greeting.
“Niamh’s missing.” I’m breathless, lungs burning, but his house comes into view, the truck’s paint shining in the sun, and I gun for it.
“Shit,” I hear my brother scramble, Remy in the background asking what the hell is going on.
“I’ll be there in a minute; get the truck ready.”
By the time I make it, Silas is behind the wheel, Remy is in the back, and I fly into the passenger seat.
“The bar.” I order. Silas slams his foot on the gas, kicking up gravel behind him as the truck roars out of the drive and onto the road. From here, it’s easy to speed toward town. There’s only this ranch and theother one out here, so it’s empty, but Silas has to slow when we hit town.
“Shit.” I hiss. “It’s the festival.”
We’re about two blocks away from the main strip where Niamh’s bar is so I don’t bother waiting to fight through the heavy traffic or the crowds using the road like a sidewalk and hop out, sprinting the rest of the way to the bar.
I knock people out of the way to get through the door, finding Ashley waiting.
“Where is she?” I demand.
Glassy eyes meet mine. “She was here.”
“Tell me what you know, Ashley,” I beg.
“We got busy, and she needed to grab some limes, so she went to the kitchen, but the guys in there haven’t seen her since.”
Pushing through the staff doors, I first go to the kitchens to check for myself, her name stuck in my throat when I don’t find her there so I go to the stairs that lead to her studio apartment but that too, is empty, dust gathering on the surfaces since she hasn’t been back here in so long.
No. No. No.
Panic rises as I barrel back down, almost slipping on the floor as I shove open every closed door in this place until I come to the last room and the only room with the door open.
A storage area for what looks like nonperishables, but it’s the box on the floor that catches my attention, the items inside spilled out. She was in here.
She was here, and now she isn’t.
“Roman?” Silas calls.
“Where is she?” I turn to my brother, the panic eating me alive, ripping the skin from my bones. Wide eyes plead with him, begging him to tell me this isn’t real, that she isn’t missing. I can’t fucking stand it. “Where is my wife?”
“The deputies are here,” Silas says, his shoulders low.
I can barely hear anything above the roaring in my ears.
He has her. He got to her.
He never fuckingleft.
“What the fuck do you mean you received no reports?” Remy bellows from the bar, drawing us toward him. “We reported it! You have a warrant for his fucking arrest.”
An older deputy with gray in his hair frowns. “I don’t know what you want me to say, son. We have received no reports of an assault on Niamh Calloway. Certainly no arrest warrants for your father.”
Remy turns panicked eyes to us. “It’s a lie.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They don’t know.” He rambles. “It’s a fucking lie!”
