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Pointing, I asked Mop Guy, “Did you see a man carrying this bag?”
“Nah,” he said.
Layana looked between us, her smile falling when she saw my expression.
“Did you see a man with mismatched eyes?” Layana asked the man. “He’s got faded bruises on his face, all yellow and splotchy, and the most vicious eyebrows you’ve ever seen.”
Mop Guy cocked his chin up and to the side and stared at the ceiling, as if the answer to Layana’s question could be found in the swirls of white and silver paint.
“How can eyebrows be vicious?” Glitter whispered to Chester.
“Sounds like my mom’s old dog. A Chinese crested,” he whispered back. “After the poor thing fell asleep in the pizza oven, his eyes pointed in different directions, one up and to the left, the other down and to the right. No matter where you stood in front of that little demon, it always seemed like he was looking away from you. But if you were at just the right angle…ugh, I shiver just thinking about it.”
“That’s awful,” Glitter whispered.
“At least we heard it was a pizza accident,” Chester whispered. “Whatever it was, it was before Ma adopted him. Maybe the dog was born that way.”
“NowI’mshivering,” Glitter whispered.
Mop Guy wagged his finger at Layana. Recognition flashed across his face. “Yeah. Weird-colored eyes. I did see a dude like that. I don’t know if he had eyebrows though. Maybe.”
Layana said, “Well, where is he? Did you talk to him?”
“He was asking a bunch of questions, then he went all pale,” Mop Guy said.
My limbs felt so tense and heavy, I thought I might sink into the floor.
“Did you recognize him?” I asked. “Do you know him?”
“Nah. But he was weird,” Mop Guy said. “It’s like he hates people named Tristan or something. He coulda run to the bathroom. Dude looked like he was going to hurl.”
Ohmygosh. I could only imagine what my Tristan must be feeling, how lost and overwhelmed he must feel.
“Where did he go?” I asked.
Mop Guy—the real Tristan—shrugged.
I had to find my Tristan.
He couldn’t have gotten far. I took off down the hall and jammed the down arrow at the elevator. If I were in his place, blindsided the way he was, I would run.
As I impatiently waited for the elevator, I glanced out a large window. It offered a view of the street in front of the Lacuna building. There were plenty of cars clogging up the streets, but little foot traffic on the sidewalks.
“Where are you?” I whispered into the ether.
A few pedestrians walked here or there, all of them wearing business attire. Nope, none of them were him.
Finally, from the corner of my eye I spotted a man wearing jeans and a gray t-shirt walking away from the building, his shoulders hunched, hand scraping through his brown hair.
The elevator dinged and the two people inside stepped off. I hopped on and jammed the first-floor button repeatedly, praying it would help me get there faster.
As soon as the doors opened, I raced through the lobby and out the revolving door.
I didn’t know where Tristan—or whatever his name was—was going, but I knew which direction he’d been heading. I had to find him. He needed me.
I tried to think of everything I knew about him, what he liked, what he knew about himself. He was the kind of man who was as comfortable in a suit as he was in a thrifted pair of jeans and a vintage t-shirt. He was the kind of guy who preferred to be in control, to be self-sufficient. The kind who would sell his shoes to feed my weasel.
I ran and ran, checking out every person I passed, every alley, every building.
