Page 16 of The Ring Thief
She eyes me. “And what will he actually find when he gets home?”
“Not me,” I say. “And a few surprises, plus a dismantled bed.”
“You devious imp,” she cackles. “I love that for him. Doesn’t the moving company do the furniture setup?”
“Sure, but I tipped them extra to leave it the way it was.”
“That’s my girl.” She leans forward to grab her wine glass, clinking it against the one still clutched in my hand. “What’s your plan now?”
I honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead, but I know a confrontation is looming on my horizon. “Wait for him to show up, I guess.”
“You won’t take him back?”
“No.” I sink lower into the couch, the backs of my eyes burning. I hate how pitiful I feel, but I’m giving myself a couple of days to wallow and then I’ll pull myself out of the funk. I’m all up in my feels, but soon, I’ll get up off my ass and get on with life.
A life that doesn’t include Declan Masters.
CHAPTER 7
Declan
Using the key I picked up at the attendant’s desk downstairs, I unlock the door, unsurprised at the stillness that greets me. I fumble for a light switch, my other hand already yanking at my tie, pulling it away from my neck with vicious tugs. My palm finally slaps against the switch and the room floods with light, momentarily blinding me. I blink it away and then pause, frowning as I look around.
The entrance foyer to the condo is just as elegant as I remember, even with no decor set up. It’s got a classic feel, with polished gray marble flooring, gold accents tracing the edges of off-white walls and the fixtures.
The stack of boxes piled against one wall is new, however, and I stare at them nonplussed. Each box is carefully labeled with black marker in my barely legible handwriting—bathroom, office, kitchen.
I’ve spent the day putting out fire after proverbial fire, and now I’m fried, the sight in front of me not making sense.Why are they there?
Lily would have directed the movers on where to put everything, and even if she hadn’t, they can read, right? Annoyance surges, because I already know that at least half of the boxes would be too heavy for Lily to move on her own.
Making a mental note to call and complain to the company at a more reasonable hour, I leave the boxes and head for the kitchen for aglass of water. I have to step around several more boxes, ratcheting up my annoyance, but as I round the kitchen island, I freeze.
There are even more boxes here, but one is lying on its side, shards of ceramic spilling out where the cardboard has split. A chill settles sharply into my chest, something about the sight of the broken dishes is unnerving enough to have me altering my course and rushing back the way I came.
“Lily?” I call out, my voice echoing off the bare walls. It’s three in the morning, but panic wraps around me like thorny vines. “Lily!” I burst into the primary bedroom, finding it completely empty.
No furniture or boxes, and no wife.
I rush through the rest of the condo, searching everywhere until I come up short in the living room, blinking gritty eyes.
My couch is here, covered in garment bags and two suitcases. More boxes litter the floor, and inanely, I wonder where so much of it had come from. I don’t remember packing this many boxes.
Leaning against one wall is the base of my bed, the headboard precariously balanced against it. On the ground, and covered in protective plastic, is the mattress.
Unable to ignore facts, I prop my hands on my hips as I survey the scene, trying to regulate my breathing.
Lily isn’t here.
It takes a minute of calm breathing before rational thought leaks back in, and I yank my phone out of my slacks. I call Lily, but it goes straight to her voicemail, her honey-sweet voice instructing me to leave a message. I call again, and then again, but get the same result each time.
Finally, I leave a terse message, “Lily, I’m at the condo and you aren’t. I’m a little worried, so please call me as soon as you get this.”
Hanging up, I try the front desk downstairs, a professional voice greeting me with, “How can I help?”
“This is Declan Masters,” I say curtly. “I came in about—” I check my watch, “fifteen minutes ago and retrieved the key left for?—”
“3201. Of course, Mr. Masters. Is everything alright with your condo?” The attendant’s tone is concerned.
