I try the handle.
Locked.
I knock again anyway, because there’s still a stupid, desperate part of me that thinks if I just make enough noise she’ll open the door and glare at me and tell me to stop making a scene.
She doesn’t come out.
I try her again.
Voicemail again.
Where could she be? Breakfast is still going, right? Or maybe she’s punishing herself at the gym?
I bolt for the stairwell and run down to the fourth floor, where the gym is. Throwing the door open, I call for her.
“Scottie?”
I zip past the treadmills, over to the weights. She’s not here.
Back to the stairwell, downstairs to the dining room. The smell of hotel coffee, half empty tables. But no blonde hair, no sunglasses. Nothing.
Nothing.
My stomach sinks lower with every second.
If she’s not here, she’s either already gone or?—
Or she’s upstairs packing and just refused to answer.
I turn so fast my shoulder clips the wall and bolt back toward the staircase, skipping the elevator entirely.
This time, I’m running fourteen flights, but the burn in my legs barely registers as I take the steps two at a time, my hand slamming the rail to keep my balance when I nearly miss one.
By the time I reach her floor again, my lungs are on fire and sweat is gathering at the base of my neck. I rush back past the rooms and the housekeeping cart again and pound and call and pound some more.
“Scottie!”
A door down the hall opens and the woman with the housekeeping cart peers out, eyes wary. “Sir?”
I turn toward her, panting. “Have you seen?—”
“The blonde woman?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“She checked out.”
“What do you mean, checked out?”
“She left a few minutes ago with her suitcase.”
Minutes?
How did I miss her?
It doesn’t matter.
I’m already racing back down the stairwell.
