“Did she return?”
“Not that I noticed. But a few customers came in after she left, and she might have returned while I was talking to them or checking the reservations app.”
“Did you see her talking to anyone?” The question is a long shot, but I have to ask all the same.
My heart starts pounding to the rhyme offuck,fuck,fuckity, fuck.
Tammy shakes her head. “She was talking on the phone, but that’s all I remember.”
The waitress returns with the bill, and I hand her enough cash to cover the amount and a large tip on top of it.
“Is there anyone else who would have seen her?” I press.
“Several customers came in during that time, and there were several others who left. They might have seen her. Is something wrong? Do you think someone took her?” There’s an odd excitement in her eyes like she’s a Nancy Drew wannabe, eager to solve the mystery of some fucking missing sparkling cat.
I still avoid the question…because it means they will call the cops and right now, that’s the last thing I need if somethinghashappened to Isabelle.
It’s not that I don’t trust cops to do their job.
It’s just dealing with them will waste time.
Time Isabelle might not have.
“Do you remember which customers came in while she was out there?” I ask the hostess.
She nods.
“Can you take me to them? I want to ask them the same questions I asked you.”
She hesitates and looks at the waitress, who shrugs.
“I’m not sure if I’m allowed to.”
“This is extremely important.” Life and death important.
But again, I can’t tell her that—not at the risk of her calling the cops.
After what feels like several centuries, she nods and checks her device. “Okay, this way.”
I ask the waitress to tell my group that I’ve paid for our meals, and ask her if she can collect Isabelle’s purse for me. I also request that she pack up Isabelle’s cake. I’ll bring it back with me.
Because no matter what’s happened to her, she’ll kill me if I don’t remember her cake.
Hell, if someonehasfucking killed her, she’ll haunt me for the rest of my life if I forget her chocolate cake.
The hostess leads me to a table with six people. Four of them are adults. The other two are young kids.
I can feel the occupants of my table watching me, curious and wondering what the heck is going on. I don’t bother to look over at them.
Loud laughter and talking, and the clinking of metal against ceramic assault me from all corners of the restaurant like fingernails against a chalkboard.
“Sorry to interrupt,” the hostess says to the family. “This gentleman has a question for you.”
They all peer at me, their expressions bright with curiosity.
“When you entered the restaurant, did you notice a woman with blue chunks in her hair?” I ask.
The adults exchange glances and shake their heads. “Sorry.”
