Shit.
Instantly, I snag my phone off the kitchen counter, checking to see if Monica has texted me back, but my message is still the last one inside our chat. I unlock the screen and try to call her.
It rings and rings without any answer before going straight to voicemail.
I shoot her another text.
Me:Don’t go to the Swan. Call me back. It’s urgent.
I wait and I wait and I call and text her another three times.
But no response comes in, and when I see it’s 9:25 p.m., I can’t shake the feeling that something really horrible is about to happen.
I can’t shake it at all.
Immediately, I go to snag my keys and purse off the kitchen island, but when I look up and see my mom sitting there, looking at me curiously, I stop mid-step.
Son of a bitch.Of all the nights for Lovie to be off, this isn’t a good one.
I try to call Monica again. Send her another five text messages, all of them a variation ofdon’t go to that fucking hotel, but when another ten minutes go by without a word from her, I meet my mother’s eyes and hate myself for what I’m about to do.
What I feel like Ihaveto do.
“We need to go out for a bit,” I tell her, fear already clutching my chest over the reality that nighttime is never my mother’s best time.
“We going to meet with that PI, Ziva?”
“Yep,” I answer, even though it all feels wrong.
My mom hops off the barstool and jogs into the bedroom to grab her shoes before I can think twice about this whole messed-up situation.
And then she’s back, her favorite bedroom slippers on her feet and a big ol’ smile on her face. “Let’s go, Ziva.”
God help us all.
43
Hannah
9:58 p.m.
I drive to the Swan like a wild woman, my mother chattering in my ear from the passenger seat the whole way. Her alternate reality is flip-flopping among various episodes ofNCISbut mostly fixated on whichever one has her convinced Ziva needs to get more info from some PI.
The whole time, I keep trying to call Monica via my stereo’s Bluetooth, but she never answers.
It’s nearing ten at night, and when I pull up in front of the big skyscraper that showcases the sign forThe Swanabove an all-glass entry, I don’t even bother with self-parking. I whip my Civic right in front of the valet booth on the right side of the building, skid to a screeching stop, and hop out of the driver’s side door with the engine still running.
I have no idea what I’m going to do when I get inside. My intuition mixed with the details I know about Gwen’s and Heather’s cases and the vague details Lana gave me are all I have to go off of.
Which, technically speaking, isn’t a lot. Fingers crossed all this panic and fear and adrenaline I currently have running through my system will enable me to locate Monica before something really bad happens.
I open my mother’s door with a quick hand, and she doesn’t ask any questions as she gets out of the passenger seat.
A young guy with light-blond hair steps up to greet us. He’s dressed in a red-and-black valet uniform and a gold-plated name tag that readsRyan. His eyes are puzzled as he takes in our current attire—my mother in a nightgown with a sweater and a pair of house slippers and me wearing an old pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.
Clearly, we do not look like the Swan’s target audience, but if I were a betting woman, I’d guess Ryan here wouldn’t suspect that a possible murder is about to happen in one of the rooms inside.
“Can I help you?” he asks, and I jerk my head toward my still-running Civic.
