A sudden gust of wind blows, spraying me with cold, hard rain. It’s starting to come down stronger, so I go back inside and make sure all the windows are closed. Restless, I wander downstairs to the living room, where I find Armani watching football highlights on ESPN.
He’s leaning back on the leather couch, a beer in his hand. The sound of the sportscasters arguing blares from the television. He doesn’t acknowledge me as I sit on the other end of the couch and try to relax. When the TV switches to commercials, Armani grabs the remote.
“Yo. You have to watch this play.”
He rewinds the DVR, but I’m not focusing. My neck tingles. I roll my shoulder to brush it off. Something doesn’t feel right. The restlessness—it’s creeping all over me. Something’s got me itchy, in a way I can’t explain.
“Did you see that?” Armani settles back in his seat.
“Yeah.”
“Pfft, you didn’t even look at the screen.”
I grunt noncommittally in response as I pull out my phone to check for messages from my wife. Nothing. Not that I blame her.
“Where’s Frankie?” Armani asks. “She still feeling sick?”
Ignoring the question, I get up and head for the kitchen. “Want a beer?”
I don’t wait for an answer; I’ll grab him one anyway. His question nearly made me jump out of my skin. I don’t know where the hell she is, but there’s no way a burger run is taking this long, even if the line was backed up all the way down the street. And now that it’s raining, I can’t stop a wave of nightmarish images of car crashes from assaulting me.
I have my phone in my hand and am just about to hit the call button when the crunch of tires on the driveway outside pulls my attention. It’s Donovan, coming around the bend with Frankie’s car. Thank God.
The tension inside eases some. She’ll probably come sauntering in with a bag full of In-N-Out burgers and fries, slurping a strawberry shake in that obnoxious way she does just to annoy me. I swear, that woman has a hollow leg when it comes to fast food hamburgers. Or at least, she has since getting pregnant.
Returning to the living room, I hand my brother his beer and take a long drag from mine, waiting for the sound of my wife’s steps echoing in the marble hallway. Eh, maybe the houseisa tad ostentatious.
I put my eyes on the TV and sit, waiting.
And waiting.
Silence. Except for the rush of my pulse in my ears, which grows stronger with each second that I don’t hear Frankie come in.
“Dammit.” I burst from the sofa, ignoring Armani calling after me. Where the hell is she?
Running through the rain, I round the corner of the house and head to the garage, where I find Donovan having a cigarette with another one of the hired security men. Donovan does a double take when he spies me dashing through the downpour.
“Mr. Bellanti?”
“Where’s my wife?” I bark out.
Donovan flicks away the cigarette and stands. “I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”
My scalp alights with painful pricks. “Didn’t you just…take her to get dinner?”
“No, sir,” he says, shaking his head. “I took the car to get an oil change from a buddy. He gives me a cheap rate after business hours.”
Frantic, I feel a churning in my gut. “Fuck.” Something is wrong. I knew it.
My phone rings. It’s Clayton, Charlie’s husband.
“Clayton,” I say when I pick up.
“Yeah, I just got a tip—Papa Abbott’s been spotted at a local motel. The Vintner. Oh, and is Charlie at your place? She said her trip with Frankie got called off, but she’s still not home yet, and either her phone’s dead or she isn’t picking up.”
“Frankie’s missing, too. They must’ve snuck off on that trip anyway.” I keep my tone in check, but inside, I’m fucking furious.
I can’t believe Frankie skipped town after our fight earlier.
