42
NEW YORK CITY
Sarah entered Sean’s apartment and hurried toward his bedroom. “What kind?” she asked Will as soon as he called her back.
“Nike Air Force 1 Low Lux Masterpiece Crocodile Edition. Brown with a metallic gold. But what—”
“Thanks. Call you back.” And she hung up.
Throwing open the closet doors, she scanned the jumble of shoes. It was the one place he’d told his housekeeper was off-limits. He’d jokingly told Sarah, “If I have to keep the rest of my house organized, I need at least one closet that reminds me I’m a human being.”
It was the kind of mess that would have driven Will nuts. Maybe that was why, growing up, Sean had been the least organized of all of them. He’d worked hard to keep his closet a mess and the exact opposite of Will’s soldier lineup. Now the rest of his place was organized and pristine—thanks to his housekeeper and decorator—but his bedroom closet was still a mess.
Sarah dug through the heap. She only needed to find one pair—his Nike Air Force 1s. If she did, she would know that body wasn’t Sean’s. But as she continued to search, her anxiety grew.
Where are those shoes? Please, God, let me find them here.
Sarah attacked the last heap to the right of the door . . . and found them.
Grabbing the shoes, she hugged them to her chest. Sean could complain later about the salt stains on his crocodile leather. She didn’t care. She’d buy him a hundred more pairs . . . after she wrung his neck.
EN ROUTE FROM CHAUTAUQUA INSTITUTION TO NEW YORK CITY
Will’s dread grew when he didn’t hear back right away from his sister and she didn’t answer his texts. He jumped back into his Land Rover and drove as swiftly as he could to New York City.
His cell rang right when he entered the city limits. He pulled over in a 7-Eleven parking lot. “Why didn’t you—”
“It’s not Sean,” Sarah announced. She was sniffling, like she’d been crying.
“How do you know?”
“Because I found his shoes—his Nike Air Force 1s. They’re here, in his closet.”
A tidal wave of relief threatened to swamp Will. He sagged against the driver’s door.
“But his favorite athletic shoes are missing. You know, the Nike Dunk ‘Paris’ ones. Mom says he wore them when he had breakfast with her the last day she saw him.”
The tidal wave broke over Will’s head, incapacitating him.
The man had been pacing his office for nearly 20 minutes with his eye on the desk phone. He hated that phone—the cumbersome nature of it—but his wife had insisted on it. She’d said it “made” his office, whatever that meant. He didn’t care about décor. Function was what mattered to him.
His contact was late. He was never late. When his phone finally rang, he snatched the receiver out of its cradle.
With no preamble, his source reported, “The dental record is back. It’s not Sean Worthington.”
So Sean was likely alive . . . somewhere. Unless he’d run into foul play and the body hadn’t been discovered yet. Anything was possible.
“I have a tip,” his source added.
The information relayed next made sense. The Worthingtons were resourceful. If one of them wanted to disappear for a while or for years, they had the wealth and connections to do so.
He, of all people, knew that loyalty could be bought. For how long, though, was the question. He simply had to locate the person or persons who could be turned.