“Because I’m worried for you.”
Wrong. The giant blade crashes down as thoroughly as his eyes shut me out of his thoughts.
I don’t understand. Why would me being worried about him upset him so badly? He doesn’t give me a chance to ask.
“Stay here,” he says before grabbing his keys and walking away.
I stare blankly at the wall, hardly able to believe what’s just transpired. What is Tommy planning to do? Would he be foolish enough to confront Biba? God, please, no.
I start to pace the living room. Down and back. Down and back.
I do this for fifteen minutes before I cave and try to call him. The phone rings and rings. I hang up and try again to the same end.
This isn’t like him. He wouldn’t not answer my call. I can’t imagine he’s already in danger, but what else would keep him from answering? He could be on the other line. Or maybe he needs space.
Maybe you’re massively overreacting and need to calm down.
Give him time—thirty minutes. If he doesn’t call back, then I can worry. Okay, I can live with that. I’ll paint. That will hopefully distract me and calm my nerves at the same time.
I go back to the guestroom and look at my current work in progress and get out the colors I’ll need to work with, but everyfew minutes, my eyes are drawn to the canvas of lilies on the dresser. Funeral lilies. Gran says her love of them has nothing to do with the association. I could never separate the two. When I see those lilies, I’m reminded of death and the danger Biba poses to me and my family.
It suddenly occurs to me that I really hate that stupid painting. I hate it with every fiber of my being—enough that I grab it and a bottle of rubbing alcohol and take them to the bathroom. I slowly pour the alcohol at one end of the shower away from the drain so that it pools. I lay the canvas face down in the liquid, sliding it around to make sure the face is covered, little by little pouring the entire bottle until it’s saturated. Then I walk away.
I don’t go back to painting. My mood will ruin the piece, so I clean up the paints I opened and doodle on my tablet instead. The second my half hour is up, I open my phone and call Tommy again.
Still no answer.
I open the contacts and look at my options. Sante and DiAngelo. I’m more comfortable with Sante, but if I ask him to go looking for Tommy, and he ends up hurt, Amelie will be devastated. I’d hate to be responsible for that. DiAngelo doesn’t wear a wedding ring. It’s no guarantee he’s unattached, but it eases my conscience. Tommy probably wouldn’t want me calling anyone, but he can deal with it. That’s what happens if you ignore me.
I dial DiAngelo’s number, and he answers after a single ring.
“Yeah?”
“DiAngelo?” I ask, just to be sure.
“Yeah, Dani. What do you need?” He doesn’t seem upset that I’m bothering him, which is a tiny relief. He’s kind of scary.
“I’m worried and not sure what to do. Tommy got back from some meeting with his brother and was really upset. He left,saying he was going to do what he could. I have no idea what that means, and I wouldn’t freak out, except I’ve been trying to call him since he left, and he isn’t answering. It’s not like him.”
“How long’s he been gone?” His gravelly voice takes on an edge, and I appreciate that he’s taking this seriously.
“A little over thirty minutes ago. I’m worried something’s happened. I think someone needs to go look for him.”
“Hold on a second,” he says, then the line clicks silent. A minute later, he’s back. “He didn’t answer me either.”
“Please, do something. This isn’t like him.”
“You just try to calm down and stay put, okay?”
“Are you going to find him?” I demand, frustrated that he hasn’t actually agreed to go looking.
“Dammit, woman, just give me a minute. Can you do that?”
I’m so damn frustrated that I hang up on him. What is wrong with these ridiculous men that they can’t give a straight answer? I’m not going anywhere—Tommy would be furious, and I think his guard from earlier is still in the hall. All I can do is pace. And pace. And pace. I’m five minutes from wearing tracks in the rug when I get a text.
DiAngelo: Let me in.
I look at the front door, then dart in that direction. I look through the peephole to make sure it’s him, then debate whether the alarm is on, deciding it doesn’t matter. If it’s armed and goes off, hopefully that will get Tommy back here, even if on false pretenses.
