"Did he get the woman's name? Anything at all?"
Carla's voice muffles as she relays my question. Then: "I'm sorry, Mr. Baine. Jason doesn't know who the woman was. Or where they might have gone."
Goddamn it. I grip my phone so hard it's a wonder the device doesn't shatter. I have practically nothing to go on, yet the pieces are already assembling themselves.
Middle Eastern. Late thirties or early forties. A woman Avery knows, seemed friendly with.
In Chelsea with Na—
Nadiyah?
The name comes to me, accompanied by vague flashes of memory. At the atelier, one of Avery's dress fittings. A reserved, unremarkable woman bent over the embroidery frame with her precise, unhurried hands threading pearls into lace. The way she'd looked up when I spoke to her once to compliment her work. Dark eyes, level and measuring, studying me with a quality of attention that seemed insignificant at the time but registers as something else entirely now.
Something cold. Calculating.
It has to be her. That's the only thing that makes any sense.
I don't know where she lives. I don't even know her last name. I don't know why Avery would be with her in Chelsea when the atelier is in Midtown, miles from the rec center. I can't think of any possible connection that exists between a seamstress and the woman I love that would put them together this morning.
It doesn't matter why.
Avery is scared. Odds are she's with this woman. Her text cut off mid-word as though she was stopped before she could finish, and now her phone is ringing through to voicemail.
"Is everything okay, Mr. Baine? Is Ms. Ross all right?"
My pulse hammers against my temples and my throat, worry edging swiftly toward panic. "I don't know. I fucking hope so."
I end the call.
My key fob is in my hand. I stalk toward my office door, the phone held at my ear, Gabe's number connecting before I've cleared the threshold.
He picks up before the second ring. "Hey, Nick."
"I need a location ping on Avery's phone. Now."
"On it." He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't waste time asking why. "Give me two minutes." His tone is all business, the professional I need right now. "What's happening? Is she having pregnancy issues again? Should I call an ambulance?"
"I don't think it's medical. I just got a partial text from her. She's scared. She's with a woman from House of Delaire—the one working on her veil. They were in Chelsea together about an hour ago, at the rec center. Gabe, I… I think Avery is in real danger."
"Fuck." The single syllable is cold with understanding—and urgency. Gabe knows how much Avery means to me. When he speaks again, his voice has gone military-flat. "Whatever you need."
"As soon as you get me that ping, I'm going to need a team ready to move. Fast."
"You got it."
I approach my assistant's desk, my pace brisk, barely pausing to stop. "Get me that phone location ASAP, Gabe."
"Nick—" he starts.
"Yeah?"
"We'll find her."
I end the call without answering, because I can't hear those words right now. Can't afford to consider the alternative they imply.
"Lily."
She looks up from her screen, and something in my face stops her cold. The color leaves her cheeks. Her hand freezes above her keyboard, and her eyes go wide with an alarm I've neverseen from a woman who's weathered years of my worst moods without flinching.
