Page 37 of Last Seen
“Of course I do. It was strange timing. As I told the police.”
“Strange timing? I understand you can’t discuss what Cat spoke to you about, but can you at least tell me why you say that?”
The doctor hums in assent. “She had nothing but clear air ahead. She was happy. Achieving her dreams. The divorce was finalized. I will never believe she left of her own accord. I believe there was foul play, and I told the police that.”
“So you don’t think she just ran away to mess with Tyler and get out of the divorce?”
“No, I don’t. I think something happened to her in that town.”
“Where the retreat is? Brockville?”
“Yes. And Halley, I must tell you this, and it’s the last I’ll be able to say. I think you should stay away from this. It would be such a shame if something happened to you, too.”
Chapter Fourteen
Halley makes one more call, to the Metro Nashville Police. She explains who she is and why she’s calling. She’s transferred around until she gets the voicemail of a detective named Mike Cooper.
She leaves a message asking him to call her, then, with the therapist’s warning ringing in her ears, gathers her things and heads to the Jeep.
She swings by the hospital to check on her dad. He’s in jovial spirits, helped along by the morphine, no doubt, and she doesn’t share what she’s learned. Until she has a better grip on all of this—and who are we kidding, she is having some trust issues—she doesn’t want to get into it again. As far as he’s concerned, he could never talk about the murder again and be perfectly happy.
Can she? Is it even possible to put all of this aside?
No. No way. Not now. She has to find out more about Cat’s disappearance. About the place where she disappeared. She’d applied to the retreat regularly. Why? Was it that special of a place? Was it going to launch the literary career she so desired and start her life over?
She realizes her dad’s been prattling along and she hasn’t heard a word. It doesn’t matter; he’s too high to have an actual two-way conversation. He talks and laughs and makes no sense until he gets another dose from the pump and passes out again. She is not going to get anything more from him today. And honestly, what else can he really give her? He’s not going to get into the details. Not the ones she needs, at least.
A physical therapist with a handful of resistance bands and a Fourth of July–colored belt stops her on the way out to share that they will be getting him up and using some crutches tomorrow so he doesn’t waste away, then hurries off before Halley can ask any questions.
She needs to change before dinner, so she heads to the house. She’s feeling oddly isolated. In DC, there’s always someone around: the ebb and flow of the city, the lab, the short commute, the dog, her walks, the gym, the neighbors, all keeping her in constant motion. Things are quieter here. Too quiet. And maybe she doesn’t want to admit that she is unsettled by the relentless calls for her to leave this situation alone. Because how can she heed them? This is her life, her memories. Who are these strangers to tell her what she should and shouldn’t do when it comes to something so very personal?
Theo isn’t a stranger. Damning herself for the constant urge to reach out, to pretend all is normal, she dials his number, but it goes straight to voicemail. It’s the end of the day in DC, always a frantic moment at his job. He rose through the ranks quickly, and when he’s at the office, anything that happens late in the day falls on his desk. She hangs up without leaving a message, realizing that she really is disappointed not to have reached him. She has so much to share. She wants to share it with him.
She swings the Jeep into the drive, gathers the mail and a package, and hurries inside, waiting for the familiar thuds from the staircase that herald the cat making a beeline for his dinner. The house is oddly silent.
“Ailuros? Where are you, lazy cat?”
Nothing.
Odd. He’s always been a greeter, comes right to the door when someone comes home. She drops her bags and takes a look around. Upstairs, in all his favorite spots, then downstairs. Opens the door to the backyard—did he get out somehow? Nothing. She calls for him again, getting worried now. Back in the living room, she hears a thump, and a tiny meow.
It’s coming from the middle of the house. The basement.
The door is latched, like always; it’s an original, old door and doesn’t fit well in its frame. It used to rattle and bother them—bother her; when she was little, she thought ghosts lived in the space and would get spooked every time the door rattled and shook—so her dad screwed a latch onto it to hold it in place. She undoes it and opens the door, and the cat streaks past.
“How did you get down there?” She follows him to the kitchen, where he is already wolfing his food. She looks at her watch—she left before seven, and it’s after four now. She hasn’t been in the basement since she arrived in Marchburg; all that’s down there is the laundry and all the holiday decorations, old luggage, some other odds and ends. And she certainly didn’t sleepwalk. So how in the world did Ailuros get locked in?
She pets his back and croons, and he gives her a furious look and stalks to his box, where she hears him scratching around. The reality hits her.
Someone locked him in the basement.
Someone was in the house.
“Oh, now you’re being silly,” she says out loud to dispel the concern.
They don’t have a security system—it’s Marchburg, nothing bad happens here—but she’s sure she locked the front door when she left. No one could have gotten in.
But the cat was locked in the basement somehow ... She needs to go down the stairs into the darkness, and that’s not at all appealing. But she has to be responsible and see what sort of mess the cat made. If he was locked in all day, he probably peed somewhere.
