We stare after her in an exhausted stupor, adjusting to the silence of the hall.
“What do you think her idea ofbig funis?” asks Grant.
I mull it over. “A merry-go-round fueled by cotton candy and Coke.”
“The soda or the drug?”
“Yes,” I reply.
When I enter my room at last, I could cry at the sight. Everything about the room, from the fireplace to the blankets casually draped over a moss-green settee, embodies a sumptuous sort ofthis old thing?nonchalance. It’s like I’ve stepped into the Casual Living pages of a very fancy lifestyle magazine.
But it’s the tufted king-size bed that pulls me like a spaceship beam. I manage to ditch my day-old clothes in favor of the courtesy flannel pajamas, and have every intention of seeking out the toothbrush and face wash but ultimately can’t resist thecall of the downy comforter and mountain of pillows. I flop down like a dollop of frosting on the world’s fluffiest cake, and all bets are off.
• • •
I’M NOWHERE NEARrested when I wake, but the first rays of sunlight breaking through my window and whoever is banging on my door do not seem to care.
I open the door to reveal a harried-looking Grant clutching a small legal pad and pen. He’s in his same clothes, sans blazer, his sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows. But from his slightly damp hair and his clean scent, he appears to have managed a shower at some point since last night. His frazzled energy tells me it was not a particularly relaxing one.
“Can I come in?” he asks in a rush.
It can’t be much past seven. The power of speech doesn’t generally set in for me until at least eight, so I wearily gesture to the room in invitation.
I trudge to an overstuffed chair by the fireplace and sink into it, tucking my feet up underneath me. Grant ignores the seat opposite me, opting instead to pace back and forth like a competitive speedwalker.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay. I figured we should go over the plan for finding Anna now that we’re here.” The words tumble out in a barely comprehensible rush. He wiggles the pen compulsively between two fingers and looks like he might shake out of his skin.
“I see you found the espresso machine in your room,” I yawn. “Anyway, I thought we had that covered? We’ll go to her bookstore event. End of plan.”
“Right.Or,” he says, his eyes somehow bleary and bright at the same time, “we track her down sooner.” He tromps to theother chair and waves his legal pad at me. “I couldn’t sleep, so I took the liberty of brainstorming every possible way we might reach Anna and tell her she’s perpetuating a life-ruining disaster scenario for two innocent Bostonians.”
Innocent.“I threw a man out of his car and kidnapped his passenger, and you killed a guy with a cast-iron pan. But go on.”
Grant glares at me, then clears his throat and reviews his notes.
“Number one,” he reads with conviction. “We send her an email.”
He has got to be kidding.
“That’s your top suggestion? Do you genuinely think that hadn’t occurred to me?”
“Well, I—”
“Grant,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “She’s off the grid until she finishes the book. I’ve already tried reaching her on every possible platform—Instagram, email, LinkedIn, a Wi-Fi tech support forum I’m pretty sure she posted in a few years ago. Nothing. Trust me, you can skip everything on that list that involves contacting her online.”
He huffs out a breath and turns back to his list, silently flipping one page, then another, then another.
“Okay,” he finally says. “We comb through her old books for clues to where she hangs out.”
“They all take place in fictional towns,” I say, adding, “Or so I’m told.”
“Then let’s hire arealprivate investigator to find her.”
“Doyouhave private investigator money?”
“Fine!” he says, dropping his notebook on the ground as he gets to his feet. “Then we call her agent. Or her editor. Publicist. Housekeeper. And if they won’t pass along the message, we callher. There are only so many London-based phone numbers, right? Statistically, we have to guess it eventually.”
I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume this one is just the sleep deprivation talking.
