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“Grant Voss,” Rook repeated. “Board associate. He arranges dates?”

“They’re not phrased that way, obviously, otherwise he’d be charged with pimping out the staff. He offers opportunities, introducing low-paid staff to people who need event planning or consulting work.” Ethan’s precision failed him, words tumbling faster. “Two bartenders took positions he arranged. They don’t work here anymore. An usher accepted consulting work and disappeared from the roster. Now Fiona’s gone and…”

“Ethan.” Rook’s voice cut through Ethan’s spiral. “When did Fiona leave for this date?”

“Six thirty last night. She texted me at eight forty-seven from the restaurant. She hasn’t responded since.”

“Eighteen hours.” Rook’s jaw tightened. “Has anyone called her emergency contact?”

“Ryan, our evening manager, said we’d handle it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” A calculating look flickered across Rook’s expression. “Your manager wants to wait twenty-four more hours before checking if a young woman who never misses work is actually okay?”

“He thinks I’m overreacting, and that my concern is disproportionate to the available evidence.”

“Your concern,” Rook said slowly, “is the only proportionate response in this entire building.”

The validation hit harder than it should have, and Ethan’s throat tightened.

“The show starts in twelve minutes. I have a sold-out performance to manage.” He heard how hollow he sounded, and in that moment he’d never felt so helpless. Ethan hated that he felt that way, but… “I can’t…”

“It’s all right. I understand. After the show,” Rook interrupted quickly, and Ethan realized other people were waiting to be served. “Meet me after the show, and we’ll figure this out.”

Ethan wanted to explain that there was nothing to figure out, that he had no authority to investigate, that Fiona was probably fine and he was cataloging patterns that didn’t exist. Except the patterns did exist. Four staff members. Four connections to Grant Voss. Four disappearances that everyone else dismissed as normal turnover.

“The performance ends at ten fifteen,” Ethan heard himself say. “I’ll be done by ten forty-five.”

“I’ll wait,” Rook said firmly. “Staff lot behind the building?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there.” Rook stepped back from the bar. “Try to get through the show. We’ll handle this after.”

Ethan nodded, watching Rook disappear into the theater. The lobby lights dimmed, and patrons filed toward their seats. Ethan turned to the next patron with a practiced smile and reached for a glass.

/~/~/~/~/

The first act was torture. Ethan poured drinks on autopilot, but his mind was definitely on another realm. He served a merlot when the patron ordered cabernet, mixed a martini with vodka instead of gin, and forgot to garnish a gin and tonic with lime, even though Brad Hutchins always wanted extra lime, and Ethan had served him drinks for six months straight.

His phone stayed silent in his pocket. No texts from Fiona. No missed calls. Nothing.

By intermission, Ethan had composed seventeen different messages to Fiona’s emergency contact and deleted all of them. What was he supposed to say? That his coworker missed one shift, and he’d decided that meant she’d been trafficked? That a board associate’s pattern of introductions constituted evidence of criminal activity? Or was it more a case that Ethan’s anxiety had overridden his analytical thinking?

The lobby flooded with patrons demanding cocktails. Ethan worked mechanically, serving drinks and making change while his brain ran probability calculations. Eighteen hours since Fiona’s last text. A typical time frame for voluntary disappearances would suggest that person would get in touch within six hours, surely. Involuntary disappearances would be different, of course, with a longer gap between contact…and possibly no further contact at all.

“Bourbon, neat.”

Ethan looked up to find Rook at the bar, his expression carefully neutral.

“How are you enjoying the play?” Ethan poured the drink. “Act two has the masque sequence. It’s technically impressive.”

“I’ve watched enough.” Rook accepted the glass. “Ferdinand’s still bland, Prospero’s still controlling, and I still don’t care about Shakespeare.”

That was enough to stop Ethan in his tracks for a moment. “Then why did you buy a ticket?”

“Because I wanted to see you again.” Rook’s honesty was as blunt as ever. “The play was an excuse. A bad one, apparently, since I’m terrible at pretending to be interested in things I don’t actually care about.”

Ethan’s carefully constructed professionalism cracked. “You have no idea how much I appreciate a straightforward statement. It makes life so much easier.”