Page 70 of Still Missing You

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath. Voicemail, again.

Behind me, Linc exhales quietly. “Still nothing?”

I shake my head.

“Maybe his phone’s dead too,” he offers.

“Maybe,” I say, unconvinced.

My fingers hover over the phone screen before I type out a message. Where are you? Call me. Please. I’m worried.

I stare at it for a moment before hitting send. The little message bubble disappears into the digital void. No reply.

My pulse pounds harder. Even if Dylan was pissed, he’d respond to that.

I drag a hand through my hair, forcing myself to focus. Something’s wrong. The two words beat in my head. I shove my phone back into my pocket, bend my head against the wind, and start to walk before the panic swallows me whole.

“Where are you going?” Linc asks. I can hear his hurried footsteps as he scrambles to catch up with me.

“Back to the bar,” I tell him. “It’s the last place I know Dylan was at.”

“You think he’s still there now?”

No. Maybe. “I don’t know,” I admit. “But it’s the only lead I’ve got.”

“Okay, fine.” He catches up and grips my arm, forcing me to stop. When I turn to face him, he doesn’t let go. “Let’s drive. My car’s here.”

He swings his arm wide and gestures to his black SUV parked next to the inn.

I nod and follow Linc to his vehicle. As I climb into the passenger seat, he slips behind the wheel. Once on the road, we follow the same route I took earlier from The Four Corners an hour ago, but the ride feels ten times longer now.

I keep staring at my phone the entire way, willing Dylan to reply, but he doesn’t, and my mind won’t stop running worst-case scenarios.

Jim confronting Dylan.

Jim believing Dylan knew what he did.

Jim attacking him to make sure his secrets stayed buried.

“Hey,” Linc says quietly from the driver’s seat.

I realize I’ve been gripping my phone so tightly my knuckles are white.

“We’re going to find him,” Linc says. “It’s what we do.”

I nod, wishing I felt as confident as he sounded.

We pull into the bar’s parking lot. By just past seven p.m., it’s starting to fill up. I scan the lot, searching for my truck, and find it parked near the entrance. Right where I’d left it earlier.

My pulse jumps. Relief hits hard. He’s here. Maybe he’s pissed at me, or Linc was right and his phone is dead. Whatever the reason, he’s not answering my calls or replying to my texts. At least he’s safe.

I’m out of the car before Linc even finishes parking and hurrying to the entrance. Inside, the bar is busier now. The tables are crowded with diners, and the late-night regulars have settled at the counter.

The table I shared with Dylan is crowded with two twenty-something couples, and there’s no sign of Dylan. By the time I make a complete sweep of the bar, including the bathroom, Linc has caught up.

“Is he here?” he asks, and I shake my head. Apprehension settles in my gut, smothering the thin flicker of relief and leaving me cold inside.

The same server who waited on Dylan and me walks past. Recognition flashes across her face.