The blanket descended like a gold cloud, and Karen’s head and shoulders were veiled with the reek of chemicals.

Leonardo climbed down off the toilet in the adjoining stall and entered hers after cracking the lock.

He gathered Karen up, moving part of the shroud aside so she could take in fresh air, and carried her limp and bundled body out into the studio hallway. There were voices down the hall. A quick look showed no one nearby. He carried Karen away in the other direction and out the back door. The parking lot was pitch dark. Leonardo poured Karen into the back seat of his sedan and a minute later, the headlights illuminated business park buildings as he headed west.

He drove four blocks away, parked, and transferred Karen to the salon of the sailboat.

ISRAEL WOKE UP ON the couch in the soft-lit playback room, his cell beeping and displaying 1:40 a.m. He stared at the cell and then at Ross in the recliner. The bodyguard was sleeping with headphones on. Israel stood up and looked through the large window to the musicians and engineers milling about mics and instruments and music stands. He thought of Zack and frowned; she had been the smart one who had left the studio earlier in the night to sleep at the motel—sleeping in a bed, as normal people do. He saw Karen’s violin and dobro, but not her. The members of Wyde were clearly not recording so he pressed the intercom switch and asked, “Where’s Karen?”

The musicians gave him a number of distracted frowns and shrugs.

Israel released the switch and waited four minutes for Karen to appear. He left the playback room to look for her, starting with the restroom.

Israel knocked on the door and waited. He rapped harder on the door. Getting no response, he decided to look in other rooms of the studio. He noticed that the back door was chocked open; probably by the one engineer who took smoke breaks. He looked out on the empty smoking patio, kicked the chock aside, and closed the door.

After checking out the other rooms and equipment bays, he returned to the playback room. He kicked Ross’s extended boot and told him, “Let’s get everyone together.”

“Sure. Why?”

Ross levered the recliner and stood.

“Karen’s gone.”

“Where?” Ross replied, rubbing his face.

Israel pursed his lips.

“Fuck,” Ross said.

The alarm clock in Israel’s cell begins to chime and display two a.m., time for the status call to Uncle Tim.

“Call Zack at the motel. Maybe Karen’s there? Not sure how, but. Just ask her.”

While his cell continued to chime, Israel watched Ross, the band, and engineers gathering in the recording studio. Ross was on his cell and talking to them while it rang. Israel didn’t need to join them; all heads were shaking. Tapping the alarm clock off, he selected Uncle Tim from his contacts and placed the call.

The phone rang and rang all the way to voicemail. The musicians on the other side of the window were looking at him. He canceled the call and dialed Brian.

It was clear he had woken the big guy, who sounded like he was in the middle of dreaming and muttering oddities.

Israel growled through that chaos, “Find Timmy. Karen’s missing.”

“Okay,” Brian answered and hung up.

“Brian! Fuck!” He shouted in frustration, looking at the end of call display.

Ross was leaving the studio and heading out into the hall with engineers in tow. Israel heard them knocking on doors and shouting. He dialed Uncle Tim’s number again. No answer.

Zack called with the scary news that she had checked Karen’s room and she wasn’t there. She had woken Emma on the couch, who said she hadn’t seen Karen since midnight, when she left her in the studio.

He dialed Uncle Tim a third time, and the call finally answered, but not by Timmy; instead, he got a sleepy sounding Paula.