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“Oh, should I wait?” I pause in the doorway. “Think there’s enough hot?”
“Water? Don’t worry. I’ll be taking a cold one.”
CHAPTER8
40 Hours Missing
Alex
When I exit my bedroom, one glance at Ryan confirms he likes cold, short showers. A stern expression joins those icy blue eyes to convey a high degree of annoyance. One lone plate sits on the table. He has presumably showered, dressed, cooked breakfast, and finished eating. For the second time in under twenty-four hours, I have forced him to wait.
“It might be cold now.” He returns his attention to his laptop.
I pick up the plate and down half the omelet in the course of four steps to the counter. I dump the rest into the trash, rinse the plate, set it in the dishwasher, and spin around while wiping my palms on my thighs.
“I’m ready,” I announce.
“Did you not eat?” His brow scrunches in bewilderment. Or the flex of his jaw combined with the wrinkled brow could portray an intensified annoyance. Ryan is rather difficult to read. My father trained me to pay attention to body language. Body language sometimes tells us more than words. Latency and pitch in tone of voice can also reveal so much. It’s a fascinating science, really, body language.
“I ate. It was good.”
“In under thirty seconds?” He’s become quite growly since showering.
“I’m a fast eater. You looked ready. I didn’t want to make you wait.” I cross my arms and glare at the man.You looked like you were going to scold me. What the hell else should I have done?
He says something under his breath that I can’t quite hear, but the tone further confirms my annoyance theory. He pauses at the doorway, waiting for me to pass through first. His annoyance raises my annoyance level, and by the time we’ve descended the stairs, my arms are crossed and I need to look anywhere else but at him.
When we arrive in the main house kitchen, Jack’s back is to us as he looks out over the pool and ocean. He gives no sign he hears us approach. His arms are crossed, and his shoulders curve inward. All my Ryan annoyance dissipates instantly.
Jack looks broken. More so than yesterday. He seems to have shrunk since we met at Arrow’s office two days ago. The growth along his unshaven face has filled in further with tones of salt and pepper. The added dash of gray ages him, as do the deep wrinkles around his bloodshot eyes.
“Morning,” I say softly. “Do you need some coffee?”
Jack slowly turns. There is a coffee mug in his hand.
“I have no idea how many paddleboards or surfboards we own. I went through receipts…” He trails off.
“It’s okay,” Ryan says. “I mentioned the possibility to Jeff Hernandez at the SDPD. He said they’d alert the Coast Guard and keep an eye out for any unclaimed boards that float ashore. Sounded like they’d already considered the possibility. It’s a routine consideration for them.”
“Does she still surf?” I ask Jack.
“Sometimes. There’s a sandbar not too far out. You have to hike to find the better waves on this stretch of beach. She prefers paddleboarding. But I’ve never known her to do it at night.”
Ryan’s large thumbs work his phone. Texting someone.
“We’re going to visit the school this morning,” I say, but as I say it, I suspect Ryan informed Jack of our plans last night when they discussed the surfboards and, apparently, me.
“Principal Estevez said you can meet with students. A faculty member needs to be present. He gathered parental permissions from everyone already. Except for one kid. Zane Oglethorpe. His parents want a lawyer present.”
“A lawyer? Doesn’t that—”
“Before you go and think that means something…his dad is a congressman.” Jack waves his hand dismissively. “Oglethorpe’s crazy risk averse with an election coming up. He’s running for state senator. It’s the dad, not the kid.” Jack pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.
A faint humming sound comes from the kitchen island. Jack charges to the counter and lifts a cell phone. He glances at the screen, and the life in his eyes dims.
“Hey. No news.” Jack holds the phone away from his mouth and addresses us. “It’s my brother. I’m going to take it in my office. If Wayne comes over, will you send him in? He’s taking over for me this week but needs me to sign some things.”
Jack doesn’t wait for a response as he heads out of the kitchen and to the room he spends the most time in. My gaze follows him, and I remember those photographs. So much has changed since those youthful, happy photographs. Nowhere in the house do they have candids. His daughter had those happy times filed away. Is it possible it hurt to look at pictures of the past?
