Chapter Six

Six

Sky Farley's office was everything you'd expect from a corner office on the forty-ninth floor of a skyscraper. The view was arresting. So arresting that I barely noticed the cluster of suits standing at the center of the room, which broke up just as we arrived.

I looked at the group as they passed: two men and a woman, all stony-faced and middle-aged and in various forms of tweed. They did not look at me. They left quickly, their eyes downcast, as though the gleaming blond-wood floor was something deeply fascinating.

"Thanks, Elspeth," said the one remaining woman (girl?), who had to be Sky Farley. I knew from her bio that she was at least twenty-six, but she looked more like a teenager. And as opposed to everyone else I'd seen here, Sky was dressed down, in jeans, red Chucks, and a frayed cable-knit sweater. She wore glasses with thick black frames, her thick brown hair pulled into a messy bun, like some college freshman studying for finals. She made me feel overdressed and overly made up. And tall. Too tall. I towered over her in my two-inch Prada heels.

"Did you want anything?" she asked. "Coffee? Water? Gonzo?"

"No, thank you."

Elspeth left. Sky led me to her enormous desk, which housed a sleek computer with a screen the size of a small billboard. "Have a seat," she said.

I did. "Nice digs," I said.

"Right?" Sky said. "Sometimes I have to pinch myself." She seemed even younger and smaller behind the desk—like a kid exploring her mom's office at Bring Your Daughter to Work Day. "I'm glad Mrs. Welch hired you, Ms. Randall," she said.

"Sunny is fine."

"Sunny." She blushed. In that moment, she weirdly reminded me of Blake. "I've read all about you," Sky said. "It seems like if anybody can find Dylan, you can."

"I'll do my best," I said.

"So what can I tell you about him?"

"Well, first of all, is it unusual for him to just disappear like this?"

"Not really," she said.

"I didn't think so."

"But the thing is, when he does disappear, I usually know where to find him."

"Where's that?"

"My place."

I raised an eyebrow. I couldn't help it.

She blushed again. "Not like that. Jeez."

"Like what, then?"

Sky adjusted her glasses. "I'm his friend."

I wanted to ask her why. I didn't, of course. But she answered the question anyway.

"It's been like that since college, really," she said. "He'd party too hard or get in a fight with a girlfriend or do something idiotic—cheat on a test or whatever…He'd show up on my doorstep, then hide at my place until things blew over."

"You never dated him? Not even briefly?"

"I cannot stress to you enough," she said, "how incredibly not my type Dylan is."

She rolled her eyes. I laughed. This kid was smart. I liked her.

"It's funny," she said. "I was full scholarship at Harvard. My mom died when I was a kid. I grew up in foster homes. I had nothing. Dylan has always had everything. But we became friends mainly because I felt sorry for him ."

"Why?" I said. "How did you meet?"

"He paid me to write a paper for him," she said. "Trust me, it wasn't my finest hour."

I thought of Lydia Welch, the sum she wrote down for me with her Montblanc pen. "You needed the money," I said. "He was willing to pay a lot."

"Yeah," she said.

"I get it."

"It was more than that, though," she said. "The paper was for a chemistry class, which, as far as the Harvard Science Department goes, was pretty much a bird course."

She started to explain what that meant, but I stopped her. "You could sing your way through it."

"Right!"

She looked impressed. I felt kind of smug. Down with the young people, if you will. I'd learned the expression from Blake's sister, who was studying photography at the New School in Manhattan.

"The main reason why I wrote the paper for Dylan was not the money, though," she said. "It was that he seemed so desperate. Like he was incapable of doing this unbelievably easy assignment on his own. And as I've gotten to know him, I've learned that there are very few things he can do on his own. I taught him how to pump gas. He was twenty-four years old."

"Silver spoon syndrome."

"Exactly," she said. "I also think it's why he can be so awful to people. Why he has literally no discipline. The way he was raised, he never had to develop those parts of his personality, either."

I thought about my one interaction with him—how I'd warned him off stalking his ex-girlfriend Teresa Leone. Dylan had claimed she was his one true love. But Teresa had told me that, after she broke up with him, Dylan had barraged her with threatening calls, texts, and direct messages. "It's made him a lot of enemies," I said.

"And one friend," she said.

"One very charitable friend," I said.

"Well, Sunny, let's not go overboard." She raised an arm and gestured around her office like a game show model. "I mean…"

"Doesn't it bother you, though?" I said. "Doing all the work, while he gets top billing?"

"Absolutely not."

I looked at her. "Come on."

"Look, I'm going to be honest with you," she said. "The company started off the second quarter in serious trouble."

"I didn't know that," I said.

"Well, it's true," she said. "For weeks I was even worried about making payroll. I talked to Mrs. Welch—she's our board chairman, and I think she's sort of amazed we've lasted as long as we have. She told me to give it everything I could to save Gonzo. ‘Put your back into it, Sky,' she said. ‘Don't let Dylan fail again.'?"

"She loaded all that responsibility on your shoulders?"

"Yes."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Grateful," Sky said. "I met with our scientists. They created what I can honestly say is the most appealing energy drink formula out there. I told our marketing team to think outside the box, and they wrangled footage and words from world-class athletes, supermodels, top reality stars…some of the best endorsements we've ever had. Our social media people worked overtime to blast Gonzo's name out there—and it worked. It all worked. In the fourth quarter, we've seen larger profit margins than we ever imagined. Our shareholders are thrilled. Do I care if my name's up in lights? Abso-fucking-lutely not."

I smiled. "You have a good work ethic."

"So do you, Sunny," she said. "I mean, what's more important to you—working hard to solve a case or giving interviews afterward?"

"No question," I said. "Interviews."

She blinked at me.

"I'm kidding," I said.

"Thank God," she said.

"I actually hate interviews."

"I'm not even on social media," Sky said.

"I'm not, either, except my dog has an Instagram."

"I think we might be very similar, Sunny," she said.

"I think so, too," I said. Though I wasn't sure as I glanced at her desk. It was a flat landscape. No framed pictures. No vases full of flowers. No paperweights or fake awards or bobbleheads, no silly gifts from friends. If Sky Farley had a social life at all, she didn't like to advertise it.

"What do you want to know?" she said. It felt as though she was reading my mind. "What can I tell you…about Dylan?"

I lifted my gaze from her desk. "When was the last time you heard from him?"

"The Sunday after Thanksgiving," she said.

"That's the last time his parents heard from him, too."

"I know. Mrs. Welch told me."

"Was this a phone call you got? A text?"

"Text," she said. "He said he was feeling under the weather, so he wouldn't be at work on Monday. I called him to make sure he was okay."

"How did he sound?"

She shrugged. "Under the weather. But, you know…coherent."

"So no red flags at the time."

"I didn't think much about it at all," she said. "But then Tuesday rolled around, and Wednesday. I texted him but didn't get a response. I called. It went straight to voicemail. And his mailbox was full. That's when I started to worry. Dylan is always good about keeping his phone charged and his mailbox free to accept messages, even in rehab, when he can only use it for an hour a day. I spoke to Mrs. Welch. We went to his apartment together. He wasn't there, of course. The doorman said he hadn't seen him in days."

"How did the apartment look?"

"Same as always," she said. "It probably wouldn't surprise you that Dylan is kind of a slob."

"Did you notice anything missing?"

"His phone. Maybe some clothes. I don't know. He has a big wardrobe and his closets are a mess."

"Right. When was the last time you saw him in person?"

"Wednesday before Thanksgiving," she said.

"Did he seem like he was in good spirits?"

"Actually, no," she said. "We had words."

"What happened?"

"He was on something," she said. "I told him to go home and sleep it off and he got angry with me. He never gets angry with me. Told me to stop acting like his mother and went into his office and slammed the door. He was there for the rest of the day. We all left early for the holiday; his door stayed closed."

"He told you to stop acting like his mother."

"Yes."

"I thought they were close, Lydia and Dylan."

"They are," she said. "He probably meant it figuratively."

"Okay."

"Mrs. Welch told me that she and I are the only people who truly understand him," Sky said.

"When did she say that?"

"Today, actually," she said. "When she called to tell me you were coming."

I leaned back in my chair, my gaze shifting to the floor-to-ceiling windows. From this vantage point, the Custom House Tower looked like an expensive toy. Post Office Square was the size of a postage stamp. This gorgeous place, this gorgeous view. It brought new meaning to being "above it all." Who needed fake trophies and bobbleheads when you had all this? Who needed friends who weren't Dylan Welch? Sky had made it clear that Dylan was more than a bottomless wallet to her. But if that's all he'd been, I'd have gotten it a lot more.

"It's strange," Sky said. "Every morning since Dylan's been away, I've gone into his office first thing. I turn on the lights in there and look around—under Dylan's desk, in his closet…I almost expect him to be in one of those places, ready to jump out at me." She pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, her cheeks flushing again. "Dylan can be very funny, believe it or not. He would do something like that, just to freak me out." Her eyes glistened. For a moment, she reminded me of Blake again—the Blake I'd met in July. Young and confused and more than a little frightened.

A tear trickled down her cheek. Then another. She plucked a dull gray shoulder bag from the back of her chair, a purse so plain I hadn't noticed it until now—and I always notice purses. She unsnapped the bag and removed a tissue and a compact and dabbed at her eyes. Crying over Dylan Welch. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't apologize."

As she examined her face in the small mirror, I stared at the compact. Unlike the purse, it was quite remarkable—vintage Bakelite in a gorgeous jade green with a unique hexagonal shape, the initials SF in gold at the center. Monogrammed. It looked to be from the 1950s at the latest, which was very odd, considering Sky's age.

She caught me gaping at it and read my mind. "I'm not a time traveler, if that's what you're wondering," she said.

"I actually was," I said.

"The compact was my mom's," she said. "Her name was Seraphina. It's the only thing I have of hers."

"It's beautiful," I said. "I love the shape."

Carefully, she slipped it back into her purse. "When I'm hurting, I just hold it," she said. "It soothes me."

I nodded.

"Do you have anything like that?"

I thought for a moment. "My dog," I said. "Her name is Rosie."

She put her glasses back on. "Can I see a picture of her?"

I took my phone out of my bag and found a photo of Rosie looking sheepishly at the camera, a soup bone between her paws. I handed it to Sky. As she gazed at the screen, her face melted into a smile. "Thank you," she said.

"Don't mention it."

Once she seemed calmer, I took back my phone and returned to the matter at hand. I asked Sky if Dylan had any meetings scheduled in the coming week. "Distributors? Potential sponsors?" I said. "Maybe he makes rounds at the manufacturing plant?"

She shook her head. "It's a slow time for meet-and-greets—a lot of people on vacation," she said. "As for the factory, it's closed for the month of December."

"The whole month? Why?"

"Maintenance, plus morale," she said. "A month paid leave during the holidays can work wonders."

"I'd imagine."

She smiled. "It was my idea," she said. "The assembly-line people worked double shifts overtime in the fall, just so we could make it happen."

I was impressed. I told her so.

Sky's face lit up. "Thank you," she said. I wasn't sure I'd ever met such a devoted people pleaser, but considering her background—all those foster homes, nothing truly stable in her life—it made sense.

"Do please let me know if you remember anything Dylan might have mentioned, even in passing, about plans for the month," I said. "Anything at all."

"Of course," she said. Then she looked up at me, her eyes big and helpless. "You'll find him," she said. "He's out there. He's fine."

"I wish I could promise you that, but I can't."

"I know that," she said. "I was talking to myself. Or praying. Or something."

"I understand."

We sat quietly for a few moments, Sky's eyes on me, mine on her giant computer screen, an idea taking root in my mind and blooming. "Sky?" I said. "Would you mind showing me Dylan's office?"