“You are my blue crayon,
the one I never have enough of,
the one I use to color my sky.”
—A.R. Asher
“Yeah, get me whatever we have on Francesca Highland.”
“Right away, Master.”
Ending the call with Aubrey, I open the door to my office and step aside for Emmy. It isn’t until she’s walking past the threshold, her shoulder brushing my chest, that I realize what the fuck I’m doing—holding a door open for a woman for the first time in my life—and I snap the hell out of it.
She lingers in front of my desk, running a hand over one of the two leather seats. Making my way to the opposite side, I watch her as I loosen my cufflinks and roll up my sleeves.
So this is the real reason she’s here. Or was. I glance at her black scarf, and satisfaction rolls through me. Not her only reason now.
My eyes narrow on her as I think it over. “We didn’t reach out to you.”
She shakes her head even though it wasn’t a question.
“How’d you get our number to begin with? It’s not something we hand out freely.” I lower myself into my chair, leaning back and stretching my legs out.
She chews on her cheek as she sits across from me. “My sister.”
“Not so loyal, is she?”
“No. It wasn’t like that.” She sighs and glances away just as the desk phone rings.
I hit the speaker button. “Go ahead.”
“Master, we don’t have any record of a Francesca Highland.”
I rub the bottom of my chin, flick my gaze to Emmy. “You sure about that?”
“Positive. You’re welcome to check for yourself, but ...” her words peter out, and my jaw ticks.
The records are kept in the front house. I would have to walk across a wide, sunlit lawn to get there, which isn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list.
“Thank you, Aubrey.” Hanging up, I lean back against the seat and tilt my chin. Emmy’s forehead is creased in confusion, her head shaking. Aubrey is efficient. If she wasn’t, I wouldn’t rely on her. “Well, mouse. It seems you’ve made a life-altering mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake.” Her voice is assertive, but her eyes flicker with doubt. “I saw her name on a log in the spa.”
I rest my hands on the armrests and wait for her to explain.
“Well, not exactly. It was just a first name, and I guess it’s a pretty common one. But still, it can’t be a mistake. I heard her. My sister was on the phone with Stella the day she left.”
“What exactly do you think you heard?”
She lets out a sigh and sinks deeper into the chair. “I was just getting back from, um ... visiting a neighbor”—she darts her eyes away, and my hand clenches into a fist as a certain photograph of a guy with tattoos appears in my mind—“when I saw Frankie through the trailer’s window. She was transferring a number from her palm to the bottom of her dresser. I walked around to the back and started to come inside, but then I overheard her through the cracked door. It was weird. She was hushed and secretive—nothing like usual.”
When Emmy pauses to run her tongue along her lower lip, I grit my teeth. This conversation would be far less distracting if she would just keep still.
“She said she’d be ready to start right away, that she was honored to have received an invitation. She mentioned a contract, too, and something about confidentiality. Then she took off that same night. I waited to hear from her, and when a few months passed without a word, I called the number under her dresser. Stella answered.” She shrugs. “You know the rest.”
Tipping my seat back, I mull her words over. “So that’s why you were crying in your photo.”
“Oh. No.” She picks at her fingernails, something I’ve never seen her do till now. “You saw that? I, um ... my mama and I aren’t exactly close. I’d been trying to talk to her about finding Frankie, making sure she’s okay. It didn’t go so well, that’s all.”
