Page 31 of Freeing Savannah

“They let her walk away. And now I’m watching.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Flint’s voice came through like a war drum. “We’ll find them, Voodoo. Count on it.”

CHAPTER 10

The golden lightof Vienna slanted through the hotel window, painting delicate stripes across the plush carpet and the deep red upholstery of the armchair where Savannah sat still in her robe, untouched coffee cooling on the table beside her.

She stared at her phone, willing it to buzz.

Nothing.

She swiped through her messages again. No response from Daphne. No read receipts. Just the single gray checkmark taunting her, next to:“Did you make it to the Musikverein? Everything okay?”

That had been over three hours ago. It wasn’t a new experience for Daphne to be out of contact. She had been incommunicado on several other occasions during the tour. Her reasons were varied, including traffic congestion, depleted cell phone batteries, and in some cases, a simple failure to hear her phone. Savannah had believed her. But this was the longest she’d been out of touch, and a gnawing feeling of doubt began to creep into her mind.

“Try not to panic,” she whispered to herself, rubbing the edge of her thumbnail against her bottom lip, a habit she hadn’tbroken since she was thirteen and the Senator had been harsh with her for the first time.

Daphne had been with her for years. The Senator had insisted she have an assistant to handle all her socials, press, concert arrangements, and whatever else popped up. She was never late. And had never gone dark.

She was the one who made sure Savannah had water in the dressing rooms, the right shoes packed for the stage, her music downloaded to her iPad, and her migraine medicine on hand for those rare occasions when she needed it. She was always two steps ahead, not missing in action.

Savannah stood abruptly, pacing toward the suite’s window that overlooked a quiet street lined with spring-green trees and old stone buildings. Vienna was beautiful. A storybook kind of beautiful. But in that moment, it felt eerily quiet. Too quiet for what should have been a busy pre-show day.

She tapped Sawyer’s number. He answered on the first ring.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, clipped.

“No.” She exhaled hard, fighting the tightness in her chest. “I can’t reach Daphne. She was going to the Musikverein to check the staging this morning. She’s not answering her phone.”

A beat of silence.

“Her location’s off too,” Sawyer said after a second, probably checking from the tracking app he kept for emergencies.

Her heart squeezed. “You’re already looking?”

“Yeah,” he said.

Of course he was.

“I should’ve gone with her,” Savannah murmured, the fear rising thick in her throat. “I had that weird feeling this morning, like something was off. She was distracted last night. Said she’d misplaced her planner, but she’s never careless.” Daphne mixed old school with technology, which made her a rare breed. Shestill kept a paper planner, a backup she called it, even though she also had the digital calendar.

“Okay, Savi, listen to me.” His voice dropped an octave, that tone he used when he wanted to anchor her. “I’ll head to the Musikverein now. Stay where you are. Don’t open the door to anyone but me.”

She nodded automatically, forgetting for a moment that he couldn’t see her. “Do you think she’s okay?” she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

“I don’t know yet,” he said honestly. “But I’m going to find out.”

The line went dead.

Savannah stood frozen for a moment, the silence of the room crashing in around her. Then she walked to her vanity, reached for the crescent-shaped clip Voodoo had given her, and slid it into her hair, clicking it into place like armor.

She walked to the window, which she’d cracked open earlier. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted up from a nearby bakery while she gazed out at the quaint street outside the Grand Hotel Vien. Savannah’s breath fogged the glass as she leaned against the window, heart thudding in uneven bursts against her ribs. The crescent-shaped clip nestled in her hair felt heavier than usual, like a small moon of steel and secrets. She’d brushed her fingers against it three times already, reassured by the memory of Sawyer’s voice:“Press the center jewel if anything ever feels off. I’ll be there.”

Her mind drifted to their sightseeing trip she and Sawyer had taken just that morning. They’d left the hotel early, slipping away from the others on the tour. Just two people in a city that didn’t care who they were.

They’d started at Café Schwarzenberg, seated near the window with sunlight pouring in and the quiet elegance of old-world charm wrapped around them. She could still seethe way he’d smirked when she tried to pronounce “Weiner Musikverein,” the venue she’d be performing in that night, with an American accent.

Then there was Café Sacher, and the famous torte. He hadn’t told her about it, just ordered it with this smug little smile, like he knew it would ruin her for all other chocolate cake. And it had. Every bite had been a symphony, rich and bold, but it wasn’t the cake she remembered.

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