Whitney: Is she okay?
Letting out a rough sigh, I reply:She’s not here. Headed to the airport with a one-way ticket to Cali.
Whitney: Wait. Really?Three dots show up, and she adds:Why? Not because of me, right?
Me: No.I swallow, typing:Because of me.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I open my parents’ door. Fucking empty. I move downstairs, but each vacant room I enter drills a hole into the pit of my stomach. I find Maria in the laundry room folding towels, and I knock on the open door.
When she peers back at me, the lines in her face are deeper, like she aged five years since I left this morning.
“Eva?” I ask.
She sighs and shakes her head. “Pobre chico. A driver took her with her bag.”
“Shit.” I groan and rake both hands through my hair. There are two airports near here, and Eva could be headed to either one. “Do you know where my mom is?”
“Back kitchen.Pero apurate. She is not herself.”
I nod in thanks and take off across the living room. For someone who claims to hate deception, my mom sure knows how to fucking deceive. Potted plants blur by as I stride down the narrow hall and open the door. The second I spot my mom, turmoil unfolds in my chest.
She’s leaning against the wall, a wine glass hanging loosely in her hand, and the empty wine bottle on its side at her feet. Dark hair spills haphazardly from her messy bun as she stares down at a book propped open on the stack of boxes in front of her.
“Hello, darling,” she says calmly and flips a page. “Aren’t you pleased to find me home? Apparently,friendscancelling plans withfriendsis trending.”
“Where is she? Which airport?” I growl.
“Eva is currently sitting comfortably in the back seat of a luxury vehicle with a reputable driver. I told you, she’s fine,” my mom mutters without looking up. “I meant it.”
Fine?She’s not fine unless she’s here. With me. “If you’re so certain, let me make sure.”
“Come here.”
“What?”
She arches an eyebrow and glances up at me. “For heaven’s sake, don’t look so serious. I said, come here.”
Distrust laces every step I take toward her. It’s not until I’m in front of her that I realize she’s not reading a book. She’s flipping through an old photo album.
She picks up her iPhone and scrolls through her contacts. “Here,” she says, handing it to me.
My gaze narrows on the phone, but I take it.
“I still have Eva’s cell, but that’s the number to the driver. Go ahead, call him.” She takes a long swig of brandy. “Once you feel sufficiently reassured, I suggest you return to school. You don’t graduate by skipping classes.”
I hit the number and put the phone on speaker. My pulse ticks fast. I should feel a semblance of relief at the sound of ringing, at being half a step closer to making sure she’s okay, but the unease gripping my shoulders only tightens. If Paul would fucking drug her at a school swarming with people, I can’t put anything past him. I won’t relax until I hear her voice.
On the fourth ring, a gruff voice answers. “Bill O’Keefe.”
I release a long exhale. “Yeah, hi. I was hoping to speak with your passenger. This is her ... brother.” I rein in my disgust at my use ofbrotherbefore my mom can catch my expression.
“Is Mrs. Rutherford present?”
“Yes.”
“I need to speak with her, please.”
I glance at my mom, who sighs.
