Chapter 5

FIVE

She refused to admit that maybe, just a little, she might be having fun as they drove through the city of Duck Lake, partners on the hunt.

Jack emanated a devastating hotness when he turned all focused and driven, and of course she knew that, but seeing it again, up close . . .

“What are you thinking?” His question drew her out of her thoughts. She made a tiny noise of surprise and then scrambled for an answer because, well, she couldn’t tell him what she’d really been thinking. Or remembering.

Totally inappropriate to be stuck in the sweet memory of watching him water-ski on Duck Lake, the wind in her hair, tangled around her face as the man did jumps and flips and turns and all manner of daredevil tricks behind his father’s Yamaha ski boat.

Tanned, muscled from working landscape for the inn all summer, that dark hair short, wet, and tousled, laughing and thumbs-upping Stein and Conrad, who sat on the back deck of the boat.

“Nothing,” she finally said, her voice a little tweaked.

Focus! Because hello, Penny was missing and . . . and . . .

He glanced at her. “Still think she’s been kidnapped?”

She raised a shoulder. “Do you?”

“We’ll see. Ethan might have answers.”

“He said he didn’t know anything.”

“He lied.”

She frowned.

“Everybody lies. It’s just a question of how much.”

“I don’t remember you being this cynical.”

He turned off Main, headed toward Willow Street. “Realistic. Honest. And blame years of missing-person cases where the missing person turns out to have simply absconded with the contents of a bank account. Or worse, committed a crime and struck out on the lam, trying to fake their own death.”

“You get those?”

“A lot of people want to be dead and start over as a new person.”

“Sometimes it could be nice.”

He sighed. “Yep.”

Silence, and she glanced at him. “Is that what you did after you ran from law school? Start over?”

He sighed. “I didn’t . . . Listen, I graduated. Finished law school. But I couldn’t seem to . . .” He tried again. “Sticking around was too hard after Sabrina’s death.”

The name landed like a thud between them. “Sabrina?”

He turned onto Willow. “My study partner. If you say you didn’t read the book, I won’t believe you.”

“I saw the movie.”

“Bad version of the book. They changed her name.”

“Stella, I think? And you were Jason.”

“Like the Friday the 13th murderer, so that was a nice reference. I think that’s the house. We had a pizza party after practice here once.”

“It was her case that made you decide to be a . . . professional nice guy?”

“Finder, if we have to call it something. But no—that started when Boo went missing back when she was eight.”

Right. Also when she’d first decided that she could give Jack her heart. “She told me about it.”

“Went to my head. Listen, let me do the talking.” He’d pulled into the plowed driveway, bordered on either side by snowy banks. A shoveled trail led up to a white ranch home with a wreath still hanging on the door, the pine tips turning to rust.

“Hardly—”

He looked at her. “Listen. If she has disappeared, then I don’t want him spooked. It won’t matter what we say—he’ll think we’re cops and that’s the end. This isn’t the movies. I can’t make him talk.”

“I wasn’t?—”

He turned and headed up the porch, knocked on the door. A few pine needles spilled into the snow.

Footsteps inside, and the door unlocked, eased open.

Ethan, she supposed. A lanky teenager who’d clearly had a hard sleep, his hair spiked, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt. Clearly out of his persona as Supperclub valet. “Kingston?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “We just need a couple minutes.”

It might take longer than that to get him to talk, but she held that in. She wasn’t leaving without answers, so it didn’t matter what the boss ordered. She didn’t have to follow his crazy rules.

A purple haze lingered in the house, and the moment she stepped inside, the sweet, rancid odor of now legal cannabis filled the hallway. Jack glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, and she shrugged as they followed Ethan into the great room.

Heavy on the 1970s decor, a thick shag carpet covered an original wood floor, light-tan leather furniture, and large picture windows overlooked a river, frozen out back.

In the center of a wooden coffee table, an ashtray held a couple crumpled, burnt butts.

“Your dad around?” Jack asked, his voice easy, hands in his pockets.

“Cancun,” Ethan said and dropped onto the sofa, picked up one of the burnt butts and a lighter and started to fire up breakfast.

“Dude—can you wait on your high for a minute?” Jack said, his voice easy.

Ethan doused the flame. Set the joint down and leaned back against the sofa. Shrugged. “Whatever.”

Jack’s jaw tightened, but he still managed the smile.

So many layers to this man .

“So, you were working valet last night.”

“What of it?”

That thrummed a tight string in her. And she might be getting stoned just standing here.

Jack seemed unfazed. “Listen. This is a private conversation, just you and me?—”

“And the babe.”

The what?

“Yeah,” Jack said. “So what you say here doesn’t get back to your boss, ever.”

Ethan gave him a look of disbelief.

“And I don’t tell your dad. The coach. My coach.”

His eyes narrowed. And then he let out a dark word. “Fine. I didn’t have anything to do with your missing friend.”

“This is her,” Harper said, having pulled up Penny’s picture on her phone. “Penelope Pepper.”

Ethan seemed to focus on it for a moment. “Yeah, I remember her.” He glanced at Jack. “Hard to forget. She’s got rizz.”

What?

Jack just nodded.

“She was waiting for a car.”

“No Uber?” Harper asked.

“Yeah, Uber. Whatever. I think Ty drives Uber and Lyft—I’ve got his number. He does a lot of pickups at the Moonlight.”

“Ty?”

“Bowman. He was supposed to pick her up.”

“You’re friends?”

“No. He’s like . . . old.”

“I know, Ty,” Harper said. “He was in my grade.”

Ethan focused on her. “Are you from here?”

“Duck Lake Storm, bay-bee.”

He held out a fist. She met it. Whatever helped her get information.

“So Ty picked her up?” Jack said, ignoring her.

“Dunno. I had to grab a car—nice ride. Mercedes. Rental, though. I saw the tag when I drove it up. Guy who picked it up was big, reminded me of that actor who plays Jack Powers.”

“Winchester Marshall?” Harper said.

Ethan snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that’s the guy. Anyway, I got back and she was gone, so . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “That’s all I know.”

Jack said nothing.

“Really, man. That’s all.”

More silence.

“Fine. She was on the phone talking to someone when I left. Kinda sounded mad.”

Now Jack nodded. “Upset.”

Ethan pointed at him. “Right. Anyway, when I came back, like I said, she was gone.”

“Ty picked her up?”

“I guess.”

“Can you give me his contact?”

Ethan pulled a phone from his pocket, scrolled. “Give me your number, I’ll text you.”

Jack had pulled out his phone. Rattled off the numbers, and Ethan thumbed in the message.

Jack’s phone dinged.

“We done?” Ethan reached for his joint.

Harper felt woozy, so hopefully, yes.

Jack gestured to her and headed for the door as Ethan lit up.

“No business card, no call me if you think of anything ?” Harper said.

“I’m not a PI.” He held the door open. “Besides, what would said card say? Professional nice guy?” He smiled then.

She rolled her eyes. “So, we talk to Ty?”

“After we stop at the market. I need to talk to Gordo Martin about Aggie camping out in his lot.”

Aggie?

He wove his way from the snowclad neighborhood to Main Street, then over to the market. A renovated school bus, painted white, sat in the lot.

He parked next to it.

She got out. “So, this is Aggie.”

“Sweet Aggie,” he said, putting his hand on her hood. “I had this crazy idea to fix up a schoolie the summer after law school. Not sure why.” He went around and unlocked the door. “Want a tour?”

Really? She followed him up the steps, past the driver’s seat, and paused, a little undone.

Look who has a decorator’s touch. It was the perfect man cave, with a leather sofa and an oversized flatscreen that hung from the wall over a long butcher-board countertop. A farmhouse sink, low white cabinets opposite the black leather sofa. A dishwasher, a clear corner cupboard that held jars of spices as well as dishes, a stainless steel fridge, and an electric stove.

“My office is in the back, along with the bathroom, the shower, and my bedroom.”

“This is incredible, Jack. And here I felt sorry for you, living in a bus. I imagined an old mattress on the floor, a small tin-can fire.”

“Definitely less maintenance.”

“Missed opportunity, I think.”

He laughed. “She looks humble on the outside, but inside, she’s all state of the art. I keep tinkering, but yes, she’s home.” He ran a hand over the butcher-block counter. “I did her wrong by stopping in Iowa.”

“What’s in Iowa?”

“Oh, my lawyer, and manager. Husband-and-wife team. They find work for me, handle any legal issues, and do some online hunting when I need it. Sort of my backup.”

So, not the loner she’d thought, either.

“I need to run inside the market and talk to Gordo.”

She headed out, and he shut the door behind her. “Want something?”

“What, a Hot Pocket?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe a salad?”

“Aren’t I supposed to be paying your expenses?”

“For the love—you did not hire me. This”—he gestured between them—“is not a binding contract. I made no promises?—”

“Right. The rule.”

“The number one rule.” He drew in a breath as if it mattered, a lot.

She held up a hand. “Okay. You don’t work for me. But—I could still buy you a Hot Pocket.”

“I don’t want—never mind. Do you want anything?”

“I’ll wait for one of your mother’s cinnamon rolls.”

He considered her. “Maybe a better idea. I’ll be back.”

She got in the car and pulled out her phone, checked her mail. Opened a message from Clarice.

Good start. Fun. Find the release forms attached. I reached out to PopMuse. They’d like to put your articles on their blog this weekend. Forward the releases to Goldie if they agree. Don’t hold your breath, but I like your tenacity. K.

She downloaded the releases, then called Penelope’s phone again. C’mon, Pen, where are you? The same voicemail message played. She tried a text—again.

Harper

Please check in. I’m worried.

Jack was talking with a man she didn’t recognize, so she opened her Instagram and scrolled through the postings. Mostly celebrities, but a few posts on travel locations, some food bloggers, and a couple song drops from indie songwriters. Bliss had posted a clip from her upcoming performance in Leap of Faith, a rebooted Broadway musical.

She was about to close her phone when she spotted a post from @ PennyforYourThoughts .

Ready for the big finale to “The Case of Sarah Livingston”? Listen to PFYT on Monday night!

Then a shot of Penelope, bundled up, holding a coffee in a place called Echoes Vinyl Café.

She looked up to see that Jack had come out and carried two cups of coffee. She leaned over and opened the door.

He handed her a cup as he got in.

Oh. Sweet .

“You still a candy-coffee girl? Because I doctored it.”

Time stopped, hiccupped. And maybe he realized it too, because he swallowed, then set his cup into the holder and put on his seatbelt.

“Thank you.”

“Mm-hmm.” He took a sip of his. “Gordo said if I can’t tow her, I can move her to the back lot. Hopefully she can limp that far.”

Harper nodded and flashed the picture at him. “Have you ever heard of Echoes Vinyl Café?”

“I saw Echoes on my way into town yesterday. Why?”

She looked at the picture. “Penelope just posted something from there.”

He glanced at her. “Just now?”

“It’s in my feed. She could have prescheduled it.”

He put the car into reverse. “Or,” he said, pulling toward the exit, “she could be hanging out at the coffee shop while we’re running all over town looking for her.” He pulled out. “Hate to say I was right, but . . .”

Then he looked at her and smiled.

Smiled.

Not a laugh, a smile, like . . . well, with the coffee, maybe he was attempting friendship ?

“We’ll do a drive-by.”

He headed toward the shop, which stood where the old Duck Lake Diner had stood. Shame. The lot was scattered with a few cars—an orange Subaru, a beater sedan hand-painted and graffitied, and a grimy blue Taurus that had seen better years.

Pulling into a space, he put the car into Park. “Run in and check.”

She nodded and got out.

Inside, the place smelled like old records, probably the array of LPs that hung against a backdrop of orange walls. A long counter that held thousands of records lined the far wall. A real trendy feel. An LP played on an old-style console phonograph. The Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine.”

In the middle of the room, a number of round wooden tables and molded vinyl chairs, also orange, filled the space. A few patrons, mostly millennials, sat at tables, typing into their laptops, nursing mugs of coffee.

A real Penelope vibe, but no Penny.

A coffee counter on the other side of the room listed the specials, scrawled on a black chalkboard wall. At the counter, a woman with short purple pigtails and an orange apron greeted her, the name Quinn on her tag.

Harper flashed Penny’s picture. “Hi. Have you seen this woman?”

“Why?”

“She’s missing.”

“Like as in?—”

“Like she might have been kidnapped.” She lowered her voice, and Quinn’s eyes widened.

Quinn, too, lowered her voice. “Sorry, no. I’ve been here all morning, but I’m filling in for Tallulah. She usually works the morning shift. She should be in this afternoon.”

“Would she have been here last night, or yesterday morning?”

Penelope had gotten to town before Harper, so the post could have been scheduled yesterday.

“Yes,” Quinn said.

“Okay. I’ll be back. Thanks.”

Jack was reading his own phone when she climbed back inside. He looked up at her, startled, then tucked the phone away.

“Everything okay?”

“Mm-hmm. What did you find out?”

“No luck. But Tallulah is coming in this afternoon.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Problem is, it seems like she took this shot during the day.” She showed him her phone again. “See the light? It’s daylight.”

“So . . . yesterday, before the event?”

She nodded. Okay, here went nothing. “Let’s go talk to Ty. This time, you let me do the talking. Ty and I have history.”

* * *

History? What kind of history?

Harper’s words sat inside Jack’s brain, burning as if they might be, yes, a Hot Pocket.

Next to him, Harper had pulled up GPS, was now directing him to Ty’s home, or at least the home of Ty’s parents.

“Take a right up here,” Harper said, pointing ahead.

They were driving around the smaller, older communities of Duck Lake, located near the central park that had been destroyed by the path of the tornado so many years ago. Bungalows and cottages and a few ranch-style homes. He hadn’t come home after the tornado hit, but he’d called his parents for updates and read about it online.

That hadn’t been the first time he’d regretted his lifestyle. But Doyle had moved back around then and had saved Jack from having to step back into his oldest-brother shoes.

“What kind of history?” He couldn’t stop himself, apparently.

She gave a small snort that did not sound like laughter. “The kind of history that says the guy owes me.”

“So not . . . um . . .”

“Romantic?”

He couldn’t say the word, but, “Yes.”

“Hardly. He drove me crazy. He was a hunter, a real outdoorsy guy. Wore camo to school. Loved his classic rock—was the kind of guy who blared the radio in his ancient Ford pickup in the school parking lot. Unfortunately, we were paired up for a mock debate in our senior year English class. It was a big school event every year, and everyone had to deliver a persuasive argument. It was a disaster from the beginning. He hated public speaking, and he did none of the research.”

“I’ve been in a few group projects. One person does everything.”

“Me. I did everything. But we both had to give a speech. Which I knew would be an epic fail. I’d seen him give speeches before. He’d get up and sort of ramble and sweat and . . . it wasn’t pretty.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I’m not being mean—in fact, I tried to be a good partner. Stayed after school to help him write his speech, practiced with him, everything. And then, the day of the presentation, the guy took me out at my knees.”

“Ouch. How?”

“What I didn’t know was that he stole my speech during our study sessions, and when the event came, he got up and delivered it. Rote memory, perfectly, as if he was acting.”

He slowed as they turned onto Birch. “I’ve heard about that phenomenon. That people who are introverts, who fall apart in public, can put on a different persona and become someone confident and amazing onstage.”

“Oh yeah. He acted his way through the speech. And it was brilliant. I’d written it, and it was supposed to be my finale speech. We performed in the school auditorium, and I’d planned to videotape it for college entrance applications. My mom was even in the audience. But there it was, already given, and I had nothing.” She paused. “It’s up ahead.”

She pointed to a story-and-a-half bungalow, gray exterior, white door, the mailbox at an angle, jutting from the snow, the victim of a snowplow. The house sat in a row of identical bungalows, probably built in the fifties when so many of these homes had gone up after the war.

“What did you do?”

“Oh, I got up and totally made up my speech on the spot. Embellished, lied, and basically told a story.”

“So—”

“The other team killed me. Took out all my arguments, made me look like an idiot.”

Oh.

“Is it some comfort that he’s an Uber driver now?” He pulled into the driveway.

“Not even a little. They can make a lot of money. I’m an out-of-work journalist. Let’s go.” She opened the door, slammed it behind her.

Ho-kay . Maybe he should stop her before Ty took off running.

He got out. “Harper—slow down.”

But she was already at the front door, knocking.

He ran up behind her, but the door opened to an older woman, early sixties, maybe, in a pair of leggings and an oversized pink sweater.

“Mrs. Bowman. I’m looking for Ty,” Harper said.

The woman squinted at her. “You seem familiar.”

“Harper Malone. I went to school with Ty.”

“Oh, yes. Ty and you were friends. I remember.”

Jack lifted an eyebrow.

Harper sighed.

“I’m sorry—he’s not here.”

“Can I get his address?”

“Oh, he lives here, but he went to Minneapolis for the Blue Ox game tonight with a friend.”

Oh .

“When did he leave?”

Mrs. Bowman glanced past Harper, her gaze landing on Jack. Her mouth opened. “Jack Kingston?”

Um . . . “Ma’am?”

“Oh, you look just like your book jacket cover.”

Shoot.

“Wait here—will you sign it?”

“Oh, uh . . .”

Harper turned to him. “Yes, Jack, sign Mrs. Bowman’s book.”

“Come in,” Mrs. Bowman said, and Harper walked right in.

Great. His mouth pinched. Mrs. Bowman had left them standing in the entry.

“Apparently I need to read the book,” Harper said.

“It is better than the movie. Has the facts instead of fiction.”

“Like what fiction?”

“Like she wasn’t my girlfriend?—”

Mrs. Bowman returned with the, yikes, hardcover version of Sabrina’s Last Case: The Search for Answers, by Jack Kingston.

She flipped it open to the front, and a receipt fluttered out. She handed him a pen. “To Marjorie. And write something pithy.”

Oh brother . But he signed it, with a Happy reading , because that’s all he had. “When did Ty leave?” He handed the book back.

“Oh, yesterday. After work, I think. Thank you.”

“Can you have him call me when he gets back?” Harper took the pen from Jack, then picked up the receipt and wrote on it. “I’m only in town for the weekend, so I’d like to catch up.” Her smile matched her coffee—sweet.

“Of course. Ty will be so happy to see you. He still has your debate-team picture on his desk.”

Harper practically pushed Jack out of the house.

“I forgot that Conrad has a game tonight,” Harper said.

“You keep track of his game schedule?”

She followed him off the step. “Oh yeah, I’m a total hockey groupie. Glued to the television?—”

He stared at her.

She laughed then. Really laughed. “Oh, your face. No, Jack. I have a normal Minnesotan’s love of hockey—that’s it. Conrad mentioned it to Penelope last night. She said she’d watch it if she could. I forgot that when he mentioned it this morning.”

“If she could?”

“Yeah. I thought she meant all the wedding stuff, but maybe . . . I don’t know . . . she had plans?” She sighed. “Maybe you were right. Maybe she’s not missing at all. She is a little . . . quirky. Maybe she got Ty to drive her to Minneapolis to go to the game.”

“Would she do that?”

“She bought tickets on the spur of the moment to a Wrexham match two years ago when they toured the US, just in hopes of seeing Ryan Reynolds, so yes.”

He considered her for a moment. Funny, but he’d gotten exactly the opposite feeling in his gut. She had not taken a joyride into the city. “Let’s check out the security footage.”

He climbed back into the car.

Maybe he just didn’t want to go back to the house. Maybe he’d liked the fact that Mrs. Bowman had his book and he’d signed it in front of Harper.

Maybe he liked the fact that Harper had told him about Ty, like . . .

Shoot . Maybe he just liked her, the old feelings from the past stirring to life like an dormant ember.

She so wasn’t an eighteen-year-old spring breaker anymore.

He pulled out and drove back through town to the Moonlight.

“So, what facts are different?”

He glanced at her.

“The book versus the movie.”

Oh . “Well, first, I wasn’t the last person to see Sabrina. She’d gone out with some girlfriends after our study session, and a bouncer at the campus pub saw her leave.”

“But you were the first one to notice she was missing.”

“She’d asked me to go with her somewhere the next morning, so yes. Except I was about an hour late. I went for a run, showered, changed, and went to her apartment. She’d left without me. I called her—no answer. So I waited there about an hour before her roommate came home.”

“In downtown Minneapolis, in the height of winter.”

“They got that wrong too. It was March. The snow was melting.” He turned onto Main again. “And I didn’t search for her by myself. Not at first. Like I said, I called her and called her and then contacted campus police. But I had nothing but a gut feeling that something wasn’t right. And then, forty-eight hours later, I checked, and the campus police hadn’t found her—and hadn’t contact the Minneapolis police, so I did. They found a cam shot of her car leaving the neighborhood early the day she disappeared—a bank cam caught it. So they decided she’d gone home.”

“To Iowa.”

“Yes. And that’s when I picked up the case and stopped studying for the bar exam.”

He said it quickly, easily, as if it weren’t a knife to his soul.

“And after that—the trip to Iowa to visit her family, and then you finding her car by the side of the road at a Minnesota rest area. The interview with a couple OTR truckers who saw her car there that morning, smoking. Did the movie get it right?”

“Yeah. I finally got the footage from the rest-area cameras, identified the trucker who picked her up.”

“The movie had you tracking down the trucker.”

“Nice guy. He brought her to a nearby town, where she got a tow-truck operator to pick up her car. Then she went to a local café to eat, and from there?—”

“Vanished again.”

“Yeah. Took me two weeks to figure out that she’d gone to meet with a witness. She was working for a law firm as a clerk, and I’m not sure why she went to talk to Hinkle, but she met him at the diner, then went back to his farm, where he showed her the radiation poisoning to his cows.”

“Which eventually killed Hinkle.”

“Yeah. I talked with him before he died. He filled in the blanks of how she went to the nuclear plant, got inside with the help of a local security guard, got samples, and was all set to deliver them to officials when she was caught.”

“The movie ends with her running for her life through the woods in the dark.”

“Actually, it ends with me—or my character—finding her body at the bottom of the cliff, but with the evidence intact. She saved lives.”

“So did you, by finding her.”

Her words found raw places inside, scraped up by the story. “Yeah. I can’t help but think that if I hadn’t gone for that run . . .”

“Jack. You have to forgive yourself.”

He had turned into the Moonlight parking lot. Eight years since Sabrina’s death, and he didn’t have a clue what forgive yourself meant.

Now he just looked at Harper and must have worn his thoughts on his face, because she reached out and touched his arm. Sweetly. Like they were friends.

“Just saying that maybe the professional nice guy deserves some grace.”

He glanced at her touch, heating his entire body, then blew out a breath. She let him go, and he unstrapped his seatbelt. “Let’s find your friend.” He got out and headed for the supper club.

Julian rose from his desk when he spotted them. “I talked with Marcus. He pulled up the footage and found your friend.” He came around and led them back through the building, past the ballroom, the coat-check closet, and the dining room, all the way to a locked room, where he knocked.

A man answered, military vibe, built, and stuck out his hand to Jack. “Marcus Alvarez.”

Jack introduced himself and Harper. “What did you find?”

“I pulled it up for you.” The office held flatscreens with multiple cameras, a few rolling chairs, and in the next room, an office with a conference table, a whiteboard.

Now, Marcus offered Harper a chair and she took it. Jack stood behind her, arms akimbo.

The center flatscreen held a still picture of a woman getting into a white Toyota Camry. Definitely Penelope, dressed in that all-white outfit, the oversized man’s jacket.

“Is that someone in the car already?” Harper leaned forward, and Marcus enlarged the screen. Hard to tell.

“Any shot of the license plate?”

“I already got that.” Marcus handed him a piece of paper. “I ran the plate. That’s definitely Ty Bowman’s car.”

“Play the footage,” Jack said.

Marcus pushed play, and Jack watched as Penelope got into the vehicle and closed the door. It drove off-screen, darkness, the red lights flashing, then disappeared into the night.

Something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t put a name to it, but . . .

Harper shook her head. “Okay, I’m calling Franco.” She got up.

“See you tonight for your next dance lesson?”

Oh no .

“Perfect,” Harper said and opened the door, holding her phone.

Jack thanked Julian and walked out behind her. She paced the hallway, nodding, talking to someone on the phone. She finally hung up and headed back to him.

“Okay, I called her house and talked with her security guy. He said that he’d heard from her—that she’d gone back to Minneapolis to chase a lead for her podcast.” She pocketed her phone. “Maybe she found out something that she had to edit before the show dropped.”

“Feels like she’d say something,” Jack said.

“I know, but . . . she’s a little over dedicated to her show—” She pulled out her phone. “It’s a text from Boo. I need to go back to the inn for a dress fitting, and you’re due at the tux rental place in town.”

Right. Fine .

He headed down the hallway, the image of Penelope standing by the door, texting, reaching back to him. “She was upset.”

“That’s what Ethan said. But given his state . . . who knows?” She reached the door, but Jack put his hand on it.

“Call her again.”

“Fine.” She pulled out her phone as she headed outside, and dialed. “See. Voicemail.” She started across the parking lot, hanging up.

A sound trilled from nearby, and he stilled. “Is that a phone?”

“Sounds like ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’” She, too, stilled.

“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?”

He put his hands on his hips, scanned the empty lot. Rounded back to Harper.

“Queen,” she said.

“I know.” He shook his head.

The song kept playing. “No escape from reality . . .”

Pine trees in planters lined the front walk of the supper club, and he walked near. The song died and then revived again. He searched the planters. Nothing.

The phone kept playing, and he walked down the row of pine trees.

“Because I’m easy come, easy go . . .”

He stopped at the end of the row, where the driveway turned toward the street.

The song had died.

Silence, just the shifting of the trees.

He listened a bit longer, searched the snowbank, but found nothing.

“We need to go,” Harper said.

He nodded and turned back to the car.

But he couldn’t ignore the fact that his gut said that Penelope might actually be in big trouble.