“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 ornot. 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 initialsSFin 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.”
