If he didn’t find Glory within the next fifteen minutes, he’d go back and free the man and deal with the consequences then.
He floored it, siren wailing. He practically took the three turns between the Misty Cat and the Greenleaf house on two wheels, at speeds that would have made Franco Francone’s Porsche look like his old Fiero. In seven minutes rather than the seventeen it ought to have taken, he came to a screeching halt on the dirt road in front of it. He leaped out of the car, running past a gaping Mrs.Binkley holding a trowel in one hand, and hurdled the picket fence.
Law enforcement leaping out of cars in front of the Greenleaf house: Nothing their neighbors hadn’t seen before.
He thumped a fist three times on the door. “GLORY!”
He stepped back and waited.
It felt like his heart was pounding just that hard on the wall of his chest.
No response. He put his ear to the door.
The whole house seemed inordinately still. It was as if the wind had agreed not to stir a single blade of grass or leaf on a tree. Like the house was enclosed in some kind of dome.
His heart flopped over hard in his chest with dread.
He tried the door handle. “Glory?”
The door was unlocked.
He put his hand on his gun, and pushed it open slowly, right into their living room.
He almost didn’t notice her, because she was standing in the middle of the room, as motionless as the sofa. Striped in diagonal light and shadow from the vertical blinds.
She looked indescribably pretty: hair brushed to a sheen and hanging down her back, a top he knew she’d chosen because it was blue and had little frills at the arm holes and fit her like a corset. She was wearing a lot more makeup than he’d ever seen her use, all carefully applied.
“Honey...”
The word slipped out.
Something was really, really wrong.
He realized then that the reason he’d noticed the makeup at all was that she was stark white.
“What are you doing, Glory?” he said gently, reasonable as a hostage negotiator. “You need to grab your guitar and go. Wyatt Congdon is waiting for you at the Misty Cat.”
She swallowed audibly. “Can’t.” Her voice was a sandpapery whisper.
“You can’t... what?”
“Grab myguitar.” Now her voice was louder than it ought to be. As if she’d lost her ability to calibrate. She sounded almost blackly amused. “It’s gone.”
Shit.
“Glory Hallelujah Greenleaf, look at me.”
She obeyed. Reluctantly.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. The mascara she’d carefully applied was smudging beneath her eyes. Water resistant. Not waterproof.
Godhelpthe person who had made her cry. When he found out who it was, they were done for.
“Glory. From the beginning.”
She took a breath and exhaled. “Okay. Eli, I told Franco I wouldn’t go with him to Napa. Not ever. He apparently set this up because he’s not a complete dick and I schooled him. Long story.”
“If you say so,” Eli encouraged her. But a huge dark weight he hadn’t been fully aware was there lifted and sailed away, and suddenly he felt made of light.
