Page 7 of The Thinnest Air
Placing his fork aside, he pushes his chair from the table and makes his way to me. Cupping my face in his hand, he kisses my forehead.
“It’s going to be really hard not having you all to myself for the next week,” he says, a playful tone in his voice. “I’m a selfish man when it comes to you.”
CHAPTER 4
GREER
Day Two
The driveway is cluttered with vehicles, marked and unmarked, all of them shiny and black and serious, crammed in one behind another. I climb out of my Yellow Cab and meet the driver near the trunk for my luggage.
My joints ache from sitting so much, and my legs are heavy. I wheel my luggage to the front door, which is open a crack, and I show myself in.
A uniformed officer stands guard by the front door, his fingers hooked on his duty belt. He peers my way, looking me up and down before strutting over like he has all the time in the world.
The lack of urgency with these people concerns me.
He’s young, and his eyes are a boring shade of brown that complements the uninterested expression on his baby face. He’s skinny, his uniform baggy around his shoulders, and I bet when he’s not working, he’s hanging out in his mother’s basement playingBattlefield.
“Ma’am, this is a—” he begins to say, stifling a yawn. His lips press together. His eyes water, quiver. I’m guessing it’s nearing the end of his shift, and when he’s called to a scene with no blood, no corpse, and no active shooter and told to be a glorified security guard, he finds himself second-guessing his life choices.
I straighten my shoulders and square my jaw. “Greer Ambrose. Meredith’s sister.”
He stops talking and stands back, pointing me toward the kitchen, and I follow a trail of low voices.
Andrew notices me the second I appear in the doorway. We lock eyes from across the room, but we might as well be locking horns. His gray slacks and navy cashmere sweater are a noticeable departure from his custom three-piece suits, but he still looks as though he woke up this morning, showered as if it were any other day, and put time and effort into his appearance.
“Greer.” He comes toward me, wrapping his arms around me and squeezing me tight. He’s never hugged me this way before, not even for show when Meredith was around. “I’m glad you could make it.”
He pulls away but leaves his hands on my shoulders. I don’t like them there. I don’t like him touching me. Just because my sister is missing doesn’t mean I’m going to forget that he’s a pompous egomaniac who plucked my sister from obscurity, all so he could have the shiniest of trophy wives in all this pathetic little ski resort land.
“What’s the latest?” I try to ignore the distracting weight of his hands.
“Nothing.” He exhales, his eyes drifting over my shoulder and focusing on something behind me as worry lines spread along his forehead. “The forensics team had her phone overnight. They’ve requested her phone records, but so far nothing unusual. She wasn’t texting anyone out of the ordinary ... making plans with anyone ...”
“I just don’t understand what led up to this. Did the two of you have a fight?” I ask. “Is there any chance she left on her own?”
“Absolutely not.” His brows rise. Defensive, perhaps, that I would even suggest such a thing? “It was just an ordinary day. I kissed her goodbye, left for work ...”
His words trail into silence, and for a moment I think he may be getting choked up.
“So catch me up here.” I brace my hand on one hip and exhale. “I need to know everything.”
His eyes take their time finding mine. “Like I said, Greer, she went to the grocery store yesterday, and no one’s seen her since. There was no fight. No marital discord. We’ve contacted all the area hospitals, jails, shelters. Everything. No one’s seen a woman matching her description.”
“What about her car? Any signs ...?”
“No signs of foul play, no. Her phone and purse were on the passenger seat. Keys in the ignition.”
“So if someone took her, it’s someone she knew.”
He shrugs, palms in the air. “It’s hard to know. Maybe she was held up? I-I don’t know. I don’t know a damn thing.”
My brother-in-law turns, scanning the room, full of strangers who should be doing more than standing around in this ostentatious chef’s kitchen, and he points.
“That’s Detective McCormack,” he says, clearing his throat and pulling his shoulders tight. There’s a curious look on his face; his eyes squint as he nods in that direction. “He’s leading the investigation.”
A man with striking russet hair, a dimpled chin, and broad shoulders nurses a Styrofoam cup of coffee, looking much too young to have accumulated enough work experience to lead a missing persons case.
