But before he could fall even more into his self-indulgent, self-loathing spiral, he noticed that Ginny’s entire family was gathered around the TV. Not the entire family, of course, because her mother was still missing. And because her brother was on the television.
“What the hell is he doing?” Ginny asked.
“Giving a press conference,” her stepmother responded. “Obviously.”
Ginny looked up at Shepherd. Shepherd looked down at Ginny. He shrugged. “Obviously.”
“Why is he giving a press conference?”
Brandy rolled her eyes. “Because your mother is missing. Remember? At least someone is being proactive in finding her again.” At that, she gave Shepherd a significant look. “But I suppose none of us grieve the same.”
“Mom isn’t dead,” Ginny snapped. “There isnothingto grieve. And what happens between me and Shepherd is none of your business anyway, Brandy, because you won’t be invited to the wedding!”
There was such a gasp, the likes of which Shepherd had never heard. Both of the stepwomen clutched at their chests, their perfect mouths hanging open. Bradley Kent reached over and grabbed Brandy by the knee. “If I’m paying, you’re invited. Now, all of you, shut up, OK? I’m trying to hear Vincent.”
Obediently, they gathered in front of the TV. Shepherd held on to Ginny’s shoulders, started massaging his thumbs into her stiff muscles. She was trembling.
“So, what are our wedding colors?” he whispered in her ear. “You thinking spring or summer?”
Ginny shook her head, but she leaned against his chest and let him hold her.
On the TV, her brother was taking questions from membersof the press. “Yesterday morning,” Vincent said. “We have it on camera, with a timestamp. She was taken by an armed, masked man yesterday morning at eight thirty-seven a.m. from a private home of a close friend in a Laguna Key neighborhood.”
The next question was unheard, but Bradley answered confidently: “It was a Toyota Camry. Light-colored. A newer model, possibly from 2021. If you live in or near that neighborhood, there is a tip line you can call and report any security camera footage that might have captured that car coming or going. If anyone out there”—he looked straight at the camera—“knows anything at all about where my mother is, please do not hesitate to call the tip line or the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office. My family and I”—at this, he gestured at a woman and two young children behind him, all three of them looking like a family found in a store-bought picture frame—“are so thankful for any help at all. My mother is a wonderful, remarkable woman. I am heartbroken that this tragedy has befallen my family, that the criminals in this town have been able to operate unchecked for the last three years.”
“Gotta make it into a platform to run on,” Ginny mumbled.
“Why not?” her grandfather asked, his hearing surprisingly good for a man his age. “This is quite the opportunity for him. He can campaign on a Tough on Crime platform, with a personal connection to back it up. Your mother being kidnapped has practically guaranteed your brother his mayoral seat.”
“Please,” her brother said, still direct to camera. “Her name is Deandra Kent. She is fifty-seven years old. She is five foot four inches. She has shoulder-length black hair, and blue eyes. We’ve supplied her photo to the press, and we encourage everyone to share it. We don’t know where she could be right now. She could still be here in South Florida. She could be in another state. She could be in a different country. On that note, I have asked my Reverend to pray.”
Elwin Kent turned the television off. “That’s quite enough of that. You may go back to your breakfast now, Virginia.”
“Actually,” Shepherd said—he kept one arm draped around Ginny’s shoulders, started steering her out the door—“Ginnyand I have to go pick up my daughter. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Ginny allowed herself to be taken away, but she whispered up at him, “There is coffee, Shepherd. And made-to-order omelets.”
“We’ll grab breakfast with Lex,” Shepherd said. “If I have to stay one more minute in this house with your family, I’m liable to be the one with a viral breakdown.”
Ginny gave him a constricting side hug. “I’m so happy you’re struggling, Shepherd. Really. It’s very affirming for me.”
“Well, anything for you, sweetheart. Now get in the car and find a good place for waffles. I’ll call Lex and tell her the plan.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Back in his mess of a car, Shepherd was once again in charge of his own destiny. And his destiny was to pick up his daughter from his ex-wife’s house, take her to breakfast, and then drop her off at her friend’s house. That was all the destiny he needed for a while. Another early-morning rain had left a layer of smog over the ocean, making the humidity release in the air like steam from an oven.
Shepherd put a hand in front of the A/C. It was blowing cold air, but his car had yet to cool off. Shepherd frowned, pressed the button with the little snowflake logo on and off. It didn’t do anything, as far as he could tell. He did it again, anyway.
Ginny hadn’t spoken since they’d driven away from the house. Shepherd drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The silence was oppressive, and the morning sun was hitting him straight in the face. He pulled his visor low and turned on the stereo.
Fleetwood Mac started playing.
Thank God for Stevie Nicks. Shepherd hummed along and glanced at Ginny from the corner of his eye. She was sitting straight up, her hands folded in her lap as she went after her right thumb’s cuticle without even glancing down at it.
Shepherd wanted to reach over and put a stop to that. She was bound to make herself bleed. He wanted to talk about the night they shared, and where they were now, and what their destiny was two steps after waffles, because he hadn’t thought that far.
Were they going to go back and deal with her family? Go to the restaurant?
