Maybe I’ll call her. Casually. To check that everything is good. To see if she wants me to save her some food from . . . from the nonexistent dinner I ate earlier.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and, before I can continue second-guessing myself, find her name in my contacts and call.
Her phone rings several times, then goes to voicemail.
The worry nibbling at me starts taking bigger bites. Maybe it’s because I spent so much time worrying about my parents, worrying about the people in this town, worrying about Dad’s business surviving like he wanted, worrying about everything, it’s like a natural state of being at this point.
I’ll try Daphne. That’s not weird. I call her sometimes. Infrequently. Not often, but it happens . . . like once or twice a year.
Dammit.
Daphne answers after one ring. “Hey, so hypothetically speaking, if someone was being super annoying, like so annoying it caused temporary insanity, would it be okay to murder them? It might be, like, justifiable homicide?”
“What? Why are you asking me this?”
“Uhhh, no reason. Why are you calling me?”
“I was checking if you were with Vivien. She hasn’t come back yet, and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.” I don’t even believe my own bullshit right now.
“Dude. It’s like eight o’clock, not midnight. She probably just got involved in something at the theater. We’ve been cleaning everything up, repainting in spots, and going through some of the old photos and boxes. I’m sure she’s fine.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Although . . . it has been a few hours since I left. And we got all the major things accomplished. I can come back to town and?—”
I’m already moving for my coat. “No, it’s fine. I’ll go check on her. It’s kind of a long walk, anyway, I can give her a ride.”
She tsks. “It’s like three blocks, and they’ve shoveled all the sidewalks.”
“It could be icy. She could fall and hit her head or something.” I grab my keys off the counter.
There’s a pause, and then she laughs. “Oh. Oh, no. You’ve got it bad, buddy.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I know exactly what she means.
“Uh-huh, sure. Don’t worry, I won’t tell her that her attorney is panting over her.”
I lock the front door on my way out. “I’m not panting over anyone.”
“Oh, please, you are down bad.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Keep telling yourself it’s nothing, I’m sure you’ll believe it, eventually.”
“Thanks, Daphne.” I hang up before she can say anything else.
Five minutes later, I’m pulling open the front door to the theater. Some of the tension leaks out. It’s unlocked.
“Vivien?”
The overhead lights hum faintly, but there are no signs of life. I stalk toward the office but come up short in front of an arched doorway that’s cracked a few inches, faint light spilling out onto the carpet.
I rap my knuckles on the door and then press it open.
Vivien sits cross-legged on the floor, photos and books scattered around her.
“Hey.”
