Chapter Thirty

CONNOR OPENED THE door slowly, willing it not to creak. The bottom of the door glided silently across the deep-napped carpet, abetting him.

In the bedroom, Miranda slept with a line of light falling across her body, under the sheet. Connor smiled at the sight, much as he had when she was a child. He moved a little closer, peering through the dimness, and drank in her features. Asleep, she was all innocence, a little girl once more. Love swelled in his heart. So did protectiveness.

He was glad he’d brought her here to this busy hotel smack dab in the heart of a chaotic downtown. They were hiding in plain sight. The Westin, with its hundreds of rooms, its front desk staff, its security, it key-card-required access to elevators, made Connor feel safe for both of them. What could possibly happen with so many people around?

He looked at her once more, resisting his urge to caress her cheek, to tousle her reddish hair. He didn’t want her to wake. She needed this slumber. They’d both been through so much; he worried about PTSD. She let out a little sigh and turned over.

He backed from the room slowly and pulled the door deliberately and carefully behind him. It clicked as it latched, and even this small sound caused Connor to wince, to bring his shoulders up.

Connor was too wired to sleep himself. Although his eyes burned with the need for it, he simply couldn’t calm his mind enough to even consider lying down, as comfortable and comforting as the big white bed in his own room looked.

Despite his anxiety, there was a human need he had and he knew he could fulfill it—food. With Miranda asleep, this was the perfect time to duck out. He could wander over to Pike Place Market and get takeout from Lowell’s, the iconic multileveled anchor to the famous marketplace. He’d get some of their clam chowder for himself and a salad for her and bring them back. It would take no more than an hour, and, by the time he got back, Miranda would be awake and she’d be hungry.

He knew his girl.

And once they’d eaten, they could make preparations. They’d go to the police—not simply make a phone call, but show up in person at headquarters and demand to see someone in charge. Connor hated to use his fame to open doors and rarely did, but he hoped that by revealing who he was and what had happened (the earthquake and resulting landslide that had stolen his home) he’d get results. If they weren’t wowed by his fame, they might have sympathy for his natural-disaster plight.

They’d then tell whomever they talked to all about Trey/Bruno and provide them with the documents Miranda’s detective had collected—she was certain Aida would have kept records. They’d share their strong suspicion he was responsible for Steve’s murder. And most of all, they’d demand protection from this cunning lunatic.

He knew his “relationship” with Trey/Bruno was far from over. He realized there was no way, no matter what happened, a happy ending was in store. At the very least, the marriage would need some kind of legal dissolution.

He rode the elevator down and made his way through the still-crowded lobby and bar. Outside, the fading afternoon sun cast long shadows, but the temperature was slightly cool. It was comfortable and, in a way, gave him hope that all would turn out okay. Seattle summers were like that with their blessed lack of humidity and abundant sunshine, contrary to what nonresidents believed about the Emerald City.

He hurried through the downtown crowds, heading toward Elliott Bay and the marketplace. He needed to make this as fast as possible. On the way, he debated whether he should return for the phone he could see in his mind’s eye, lying on the nightstand next to his bed. He felt naked and lost without it in his pocket. He should have left Miranda a note, in case she woke up.

But if he went back, he’d be losing valuable time. And Miranda was safe in those soaring towers, surrounded by so many unwitting protectors. She’d most likely snore through his being out and not even notice he was missing.

He wouldn’t be gone long.

 

AND HE WASN’T gone long. Because it was late in the afternoon, Lowell’s wasn’t as busy as usual, and he had his order in hand within fifteen minutes. He was back at the Westin in a little less than a half hour.

He could smell the salmon and the chowder aromas wafting up as he took first the escalator and then the elevator up to their suite. For the first time that day, he allowed himself a little smile and a bit easier breathing as he imagined Miranda’s delight at the surprise meal.

He opened the door with his key card and paused in the doorway. The curtains were drawn open wide, and the view of Elliott Bay and the islands speckled in the blue was astounding. A ferry glided across its surface.

He expected to hear music, maybe the sound of the shower running.

But it was silent. And Connor put down that the suite seemed empty to his overactive imagination. And yet, he couldn’t deny that the stillness that hung in the air told a story about an empty room.

So he wasn’t surprised—although he was very, very concerned—when he opened the door to Miranda’s room to find her bed mussed, but no daughter. He could see the door to her en suite bath standing open. It was dark inside. He went to look anyway, even though he knew she wouldn’t be there. She wasn’t.

He backed out and set the food on the desk in front of the window. His appetite deserted him. The next few minutes, he spent checking out surfaces for a note and then his phone for a text or a voice mail. His home screen showed him there was indeed a voice message from her. Relieved, he pressed the Home button with his thumb to wake the phone and then went into his voice mail, hoping to hear Miranda had decided to take a dip in the pool or work off some tension on the elliptical in the gym.

But all she said was that she’d gone out to run an errand. He tried to reassure himself that she didn’t sound stressed. There was no indication she was being forced to say anything.

She’ll be back in a minute, he told himself.

But he couldn’t believe it—his rising heart rate and respiration made a lie out of his own reassurance.

Where is she?

He pressed the Call Back icon on the voice mail message screen.

It rang four times, and then Miranda’s recorded voice: “Leave a message intriguing enough to make me call you back.”

“Honey? It’s Dad. I went out and grabbed some food for us, but you’re not here. Pick up.” He waited a couple seconds, and when she didn’t answer the call, he continued, his voice just a little shaky. “With all that’s happened, I’m more worried than I normally would be. Would you please call me the minute you get this message and put me out of my misery? Please.” He disconnected and stared down at the screen of his phone for long minutes, willing it to ring.

But it remained stubbornly silent.

Connor stared out the window. The day was now fading into dusk, and the sky was awash with color, deep blue, orange, gray verging on lavender. Normally, he would have seen such a sky as nature’s display of beauty, maybe even sentimentally as hopeful reassurance.

But now all the glory of the fading day aroused in him was nausea. Where was his daughter? Did he have her? Would she end up like Steve?

At this last thought, he gave out a little cry and backed up until the backs of his knees met the bed, where he plopped down, a defeated doll, on its surface.

“Miranda!” he cried out.

He sat that way for a long time, longer than he should have. But, he wondered, what can I do?

And he answered himself: You can at least check with the front desk. See if there’s a message or if they at least have a clue as to where she’s gone.

He gave calming himself his best shot and went downstairs.

The woman at that front desk approached when it was his turn. She was young, only in her early twenties he guessed, and beautiful—skin the color of coffee with lots of cream, pulled-back, long, black hair, and dark eyes that seemed to say, “I can help you, or I can wound you. What’ll be?”

Her smile was dazzling. She knew his name. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Ryman? Everything okay with the room?”

“Yes, yes. Everything’s fine,” he lied. “I was wondering: Have you seen my daughter? Has she been by? Maybe left a message for me?”

The front desk clerk cocked her head and then shook it. Her smile faltered, and Connor supposed she was thinking, Why wouldn’t your daughter just leave a message on your phone or in the room? Why indeed.

“No, sorry to say I haven’t seen her today. I know who she is.” She leaned close and confided, “I’m a big fan of your work, so I’m thrilled that you’re staying with us.”

Connor tried to smile but failed. He couldn’t be bothered with celebrity right now. Maybe not ever again. “Well, if she happens to come by, tell her I’m looking for her.”

“I’ll be sure to do that. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

He wanted to respond that she could help him reverse the tailspin his life had gone into, but didn’t know how that would go over, so he simply nodded and gave a little wave over his shoulder as he turned and walked away.

Just as he was nearing the end of the long line of people waiting to check in, the clerk called out to him. “Wait! Wait!” He turned and saw her ask a man in a suit to step aside as she motioned Connor back to the desk.

“I’m sorry. I almost forgot.”

“Miranda did stop by?”

“No, I’m sorry, but someone did.” She reached under the desk and brought out a small padded envelope. “They left this for you. I was going to have someone bring it up to your suite, but you can save them a trip…and yourself a tip.” She grinned. Connor thought it must be nice to be in her bubble—clueless, carrying on with life as though every step wasn’t one that would put a person in peril.

He regarded the envelope lying on the desk. “Did you talk to the person who left it? See them?”

“Sorry. Another front desk person took it.”

“Are they here?”

“Again, my apologies. We just switched shifts. Rebecca won’t be back until tomorrow morning.” She slid the envelope toward him and raised her eyebrows. “If there’s nothing else?”

“Okay.” He snatched the envelope up, feeling something rectangular and hard within the padding. As he hurried back to the bank of elevators on the north end of the lobby, he wondered why this turn of events was making him feel nauseated. Dread hung over him.

Once back in the room, he barely waited for the door to close behind him to tear the envelope open with trembling hands. A bright yellow Post-it® fluttered to the floor and a small Nokia flip phone, which looked suspiciously like a burner, slid into his hand.

Grunting, he stooped to pick up the sticky note. “Don’t ignore the messages” was all it said.

The dread and nausea rose higher within, making him fear he’d need to run to the bathroom.

He flipped open the phone. There were no messages.

But he didn’t have to wait long for one to come through.

The words on the small screen chilled him, sickened him so much he sunk to the floor on his knees, unable to support his own weight any longer.

I have her. Await further instructions. Trey.