A single picture on a side table, the family portrait I’d insisted we get last Christmas. The one that used to sit on his desk at home.
I hadn’t even noticed it was gone.
I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my face into the pillow, but it doesn’t smell like him. It smells like laundry detergent. Like nothing.
Like he’d already started disappearing.
My throat tightens. I’m just about to give up—just about to drag myself out of here with nothing but more questions—when my gaze snags on the pencil lying beside the picture.
I lunge for it.
There’d been a notebook in the kitchen. Blank. But with pages missing.
Heart thudding, I sprint back, grab the notebook, and flip to the top page. I press the side of the pencil gently to the surface and start shading.
It feels stupid.
Until it doesn’t.
Because faint lines begin to emerge. A word. Then a number.
Sugar.
703-459-3322.
I sit back, notebook shaking in my hands.
Can it really be this easy?
Did Beckett leave this on purpose?
I have no idea. But…
It’s high time I talk with this Sugar person.
NOTHING TO DO BUT WAIT
ASHLEY
The phone rings only once before it picks up.
“Who is this?” the woman snaps, sharp and suspicious.
There’s noise in the background—conversation, a phone ringing, like she’s in an office or something.
I suck in a breath. “This is Ashley Carrington.Beckett’s wife.”
Silence.
“I know you know what’s going on with him.” I say. “Where is he? Is he okay? He’s not really in trouble, is he? Do I need to get him a lawyer?”
The questions pour out of me too fast, tangled together, and I hate how desperate I sound—but Iamdesperate.
There’s another silence. Then, “How did you get this number?”
“I—” I glance down, feeling like I need to tread carefully. “I found it..” I don’t want to make things worse for Beckett.
My heart thuds against my ribs.
