24. Ethan
ETHAN
Mia said forty minutes. It's been an hour and twelve.
I've called three times. Texted five. Every message goes unanswered, every call straight to voicemail like her phone's dead or turned off or somewhere she can't reach it.
The penthouse feels too large, walls pressing in while I wear a path in the hardwood between the windows and the kitchen. My hands shake when I pour water I don't drink, set the glass down too hard, listen to it crack against the granite.
Something's wrong.
The certainty sits cold in my gut, that same instinct that tells me when a witness is lying or a case is about to fall apart. Mia doesn't ignore calls. She doesn't go radio silent when she knows I'm waiting.
I dial Sable's main line. It rings six times before going to the restaurant's voicemail, Mia's recorded voice cheerful and professional, asking callers to leave a message or make reservations online.
I try her cell again. Voicemail. Again.
11:15. An hour and a half since she said she was leaving.
My fingers find Josiah's contact before conscious thought catches up.
He answers on the third ring, voice thick with sleep. "This better be important."
"Mia's not answering. She left Sable ninety minutes ago, said she'd be home in forty, and now her phone's going straight to voicemail."
"Okay. Take a breath. Maybe her battery died."
"Her battery doesn't die. She charges it religiously because Derek used to hide her charger as a control tactic and now she's paranoid about it."
"Ethan—"
"Something's wrong, Josiah. I can feel it."
The line goes quiet for a beat. When he speaks again the sleepiness is gone, replaced by the focused tone he uses during crisis management.
"Walk me through what you know. When did she text you last?"
"10:02. Said she was heading out, would be home in forty minutes."
"And you've tried calling?"
"Eight times. All voicemail. I called the restaurant, no answer there either."
"What about tracking her phone? You have Find My iPhone set up?"
"No. We never—I didn't think to set that up."
"Okay. Okay, don't panic. There could be a dozen explanations. Subway delay, phone died, she stopped somewhere and lost track of time."
"Mia doesn't lose track of time when she knows I'm waiting. And she wouldn't stop anywhere at eleven PM, Josiah. She's been terrified of being alone after dark since the break-in."
"Then maybe she went to Olivia's. Or decided to grab food somewhere. Just because she's not answering doesn't mean?—"
"He has her."
The words tumble out of me with a chilling certainty, the logical conclusion my brain's been circling for the past twenty minutes finally spoken aloud.
"You don't know that," Josiah says carefully.
"Derek Wayne has been escalating for weeks.
He destroyed her apartment, violated the restraining order, moved two blocks from her restaurant.
He told her they needed to talk. And now she's vanished between Sable and here with her phone unreachable.
" My voice cracks. "He has her, Josiah. And we're sitting here making excuses while he does God knows what. "
"If that's true, we need to call the police immediately."
"The police won't do anything for twenty-four hours. You know that. Adult goes missing in New York, they don't mobilize resources until there's proof of foul play."
"Then we create proof. I'll pull security footage from businesses near Sable, track her route to the subway, find the exact moment something went wrong. But Ethan, you need to stay rational. Losing your shit won't help Mia."
The advice is sound, logical, exactly what I'd tell a client in this situation.
I want to put my fist through a wall.
"How am I supposed to stay rational?" The question comes out strangled. "How am I supposed to sit here calmly building a case when that bastard could be hurting her right now? When every second we waste is another second she's with him?"
"By remembering that panic makes you sloppy. You taught me that, first week I worked for you. Clear head, strategic thinking, emotion doesn't override judgment."
"That was before—" I stop, swallow hard against the tightness in my throat.
"Before you fell in love with her," Josiah finishes quietly. "I know. Everyone knows, Ethan. But she needs the brilliant attorney version of you right now, not the terrified husband version. So pull yourself together and help me figure out how to find her."
The word husband lands with unexpected weight. Because that's what I am, legally and in every way that matters. Mia's husband. The person who swore to protect her, who promised Derek Wayne would never touch what she built.
And I failed.
I grab my laptop, sink onto the couch before my legs give out. "What do you need from me?"
"Start with a timeline. When did she leave work, what route does she normally take, are there security cameras between Sable and the nearest subway entrance?"
My fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up Google Maps, marking Sable's location and the transit station three blocks north. The route is straightforward, well-lit, the kind of walk that shouldn't be dangerous at eleven PM on a Tuesday.
Shouldn't be. But danger doesn't follow logic when Derek Wayne is involved.
"She takes 125th to Lenox," I say, voice steadier now that I'm moving through concrete steps. "Three blocks total. There's a bodega on the corner with exterior cameras, probably a few other businesses with security footage."
"I'll contact them first thing tomorrow, get access to whatever they have."
"Tomorrow's not good enough."
"Ethan, it's almost midnight. Nobody's going to hand over security footage to a civilian at this hour."
"Then I'll go there myself. Break in if I have to."
"And get arrested, which helps Mia how exactly?"
The logic penetrates the panic, barely. I close my eyes, press the heels of my palms against them until spots dance behind my eyelids.
"I can't just sit here," I whisper. "I can't do nothing while she's… while he's?—"
My throat closes around the words I can't say. The images my brain conjures are worse than anything I argued in court, every horror story from Josiah's file about Derek's previous victims playing on loop.
"You're not doing nothing," Josiah says firmly. "You're building the case we need to prosecute this bastard when we find her. Because we will find her, Ethan. Mia's smart, she's strong, and she knows you're looking."
The question hangs in the air, heavy with everything I'm not saying. What if I'm too late? What if Derek hurts her before I can find where he's holding her?
"I'll start working on this. I'll call you once I have something," he says. Then, he hangs up, leaving me with the silence of my own thoughts.
Not too long afterwards, my phone rings. Unknown number.
I answer before the second ring finishes. "Hello?"
"Mr. Evans." Derek Wayne's voice is smooth, pleasant, the tone of someone conducting business. "I hope I'm not calling too late."
The world narrows to the sound of his breathing on the line.
"Where is she?"
"Who? Oh, you mean Mia. She's here with me, actually. We're having a long overdue conversation about boundaries and respect and the consequences of running away from what you owe someone."
"If you hurt her?—"
"You'll what, exactly? Sue me? You've been trying that approach for months with limited success." He pauses. "But I'm not calling to trade threats, Mr. Evans. I'm calling to propose a trade."
I hit the voice memo app, set the phone to speaker.
"I'm listening," I say.
"Drop the legal action. Publicly announce that the marriage was a publicity stunt, file for divorce, and stay out of Mia's life permanently. Do that, and I'll return her unharmed."
"How do I know she's alive?"
There's rustling, then Mia's voice, strained but unmistakably hers: "Ethan, don't?—"
The sound cuts off abruptly. Derek's voice returns.
"Satisfied? Now, about my proposal?—"
"Where are you holding her?"
"That information isn't part of the negotiation."
"Then there's no negotiation. You release Mia immediately and turn yourself in, or I'm calling the police and every law enforcement contact I have to hunt you down."
Derek laughs, genuinely amused. "You're not in a position to make demands, Evans. I have something you want. The question is whether you value your pride or her safety more."
My vision tunnels. Every instinct screams to agree, to give Derek whatever he wants if it means getting Mia back. But I've negotiated enough hostage situations in adjacent cases to know that compliance doesn't guarantee safety.
"I need proof of life," I say. "Recent photo, current timestamp, something showing she's unharmed."
"You just heard her voice."
"That was ten seconds of audio that could have been recorded anytime. I need visual confirmation within the last hour, or this conversation is over."
Another pause. The sound of movement, Derek's breathing slightly heavier like he's walking.
"Fine. Check your messages."
My phone buzzes. An image appears, timestamp reading 11:43 PM. Mia sits bound to a chair, blindfolded, very much alive but with fear written across every visible inch of her face.
The image makes bile rise in my throat.
"There's your proof," Derek says. "Now, do we have an agreement?"
"No."
The word comes out before thought catches up. Josiah's going to kill me for this, but I can't help it. Agreeing to Derek's demands means abandoning Mia to whatever he has planned, means trusting that a man who's violated every boundary and promise will suddenly develop honor.
"No?" Derek's voice hardens. "You're willing to risk her life over legal paperwork?"
"I'm willing to risk calling your bluff. You hurt Mia, you lose your leverage. You kill her, you spend the rest of your life in prison. So no, Derek. I don't believe you'll follow through."
"You're playing a very dangerous game, Mr. Evans."
"So are you. And I'm better at it."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone in my shaking hand, at Mia's terrified face frozen on the screen, and for the first time in my career I have absolutely no idea what to do next.