Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DEAN
Liana sits in her highchair near the kitchen island, kicking one socked foot against the tray.
Christmas music plays quietly through the speakers, almost lost beneath the steady hum of the city beyond the windows and the occasional babble coming from my daughter.
The entire afternoon has been calm.
Aubrey left shortly after lunch with a handwritten list folded into the pocket of her coat and the determined expression of someone who planned to finish every bit of her Christmas shopping in one day.
I offered to send a car with her, but she just rolled her eyes. I offered to go with her, and she reminded me that half the gifts were for me, my father, or Liana.
Then she kissed me in the middle of the kitchen and promised she would be home before dinner.
I glance at the clock above the oven—5:32.
Dinner is not until six, which means she is not late—not even close.
I know that.
Still, my hand reaches for my phone, where it rests beside the cutting board.
No new messages. I set it back down.
Liana smacks both palms against the tray, sending one of her toys tumbling to the floor.
“Was that necessary?” I ask.
She grins at me with two tiny teeth showing to let me know that it apparently was.
I pick up the toy and toss it onto the tray before crouching beside her chair. “Your nanny is a bad influence.”
Liana squeals.
“She encourages chaos … and spending.”
That earns me an excited kick.
I shake my head as I stand. “You two are going to bankrupt me.”
The absurdity of the statement makes me smile.
Aubrey could probably spend every waking hour shopping for the rest of her life and never make a meaningful dent in my bank account.
The only thing she has bought for herself since moving into my apartment is a sweater she found on sale.
Most of the bags she carries home are filled with things for Liana.
A dress she was certain my daughter needed or a book with textured pages.
Tiny socks with a reindeer stitched across the toes.
The thought of Aubrey holding each item up and imagining Liana wearing or using it sends warmth through my chest.
I check the sauce again, lower the heat, and carry Liana into the living room.
She settles against my chest with one hand fisted in my shirt, content to watch the lights from the Christmas tree blink on and off. Aubrey decorated it last weekend. Before her, I had seen buying a Christmas tree as a waste of time and energy.
Now there are mismatched ornaments, a crooked ribbon winding through the branches, and a stuffed angel at the top that leans so far to one side that it looks intoxicated.
I told Aubrey we should fix it. She told me it had character.
She won … she usually does.
At 5:48, I look at my phone again to find nothing.
I tell myself she is probably on her way back now.
I open our text thread anyway.
Me: How’s the shopping going?
I stare at the message for a moment before pressing Send.
The small blue bubble appears beneath the last picture she sent me, a photograph of a ridiculous baby-sized Santa hat with the caption, Tell me she doesn’t need this.
I replied, She doesn’t need it.
Aubrey sent back, Wrong answer.
I smile at the messages, but the expression fades when the clock changes to 5:50.
Liana begins rubbing her eyes, and I carry her down the hall to change her diaper before dinner. The routine gives me something to do. I talk to her while I work, describing each step like she is deeply invested in the process.
“First, we remove the evidence,” I tell her, lifting her legs.
She grabs one foot and tries to pull it toward her mouth.
“No. Absolutely not.”
She continues trying.
“You have no standards.”
She laughs, and for several minutes, I forget to check the time.
When we return to the kitchen, it is 6:03. I glance toward the foyer before I can stop myself.
The apartment remains quiet. No sound from the elevator, telling me she’s on her way up.
I set Liana back into the highchair and pick up my phone. My message still shows as Delivered, but there is no response.
I type another one.
Me: Dinner’s ready whenever you are.
This time, I hesitate before sending it.
She said she would be back before dinner, not at exactly six. She has been gone for hours. It is December in Manhattan. Every store is crowded. Every sidewalk is packed. Being fifteen or twenty minutes late means nothing.
I press Send anyway, and then I slide the phone face down on the counter, irritated with myself for caring this much. Not caring about her—that part is unavoidable. I am irritated by the part of my brain that has already begun monitoring every minute.
By 6:15, I make Liana her bottle and feed her dinner while mine remains untouched on the stove. She takes three bites of her mashed peas, spits out the fourth, and smears the fifth across her cheek. I clean her face, offer her more, and pretend I am not listening for the elevator.
At 6:20, I check the phone again, and there’s still nothing. Not even a text to let me know she is running late.
A small pressure begins behind my ribs. It’s a tightening that makes each breath feel slightly more deliberate.
I call her, and it goes to voicemail. My grip tightens around the phone. It has to be a dead battery.
I hang up before the beep and force myself to place the phone back on the counter.
“She’s fine,” I say out loud to myself.
Liana stares at me. I manage a smile that feels wrong on my face.
“Aubrey is fine.”
The words should reassure me, but they don’t.
At 6:25, I turn the burner beneath the sauce to its lowest setting. At 6:28, I move the pan off the heat completely.
At 6:31, I walk to the windows.
The city below is a blur of headlights, taillights, and pedestrians bundled in dark coats. From this height, everyone looks small and anonymous. I scan the sidewalk outside the building anyway, searching for a familiar cream coat or the movement of auburn hair beneath a knitted hat.
There is no reason to believe she would be visible from here, but I continue looking.
Behind me, Liana makes an impatient sound, and guilt hits me sharply. I turn away from the window and lift her from the highchair.
She is tired. Her body has gone heavy in the way it does before sleep, her cheek immediately settling against my shoulder.
I carry her through the apartment, rubbing slow circles over her back.
“She probably found one more store,” I whisper.
Liana’s fingers curl into my collar.
“Or the lines are long.”
I walk toward the hallway, then turn back toward the windows.
“Her phone died. That’s all.”
The more I say it, the less convincing it becomes.
At 6:37, I call again. This time, I leave a message.
“Hey. Dinner’s ready. Call me when you get this.” My voice sounds normal. Exactly the way I want it to sound.
I end the call and stare at the screen. The urge to call again comes almost immediately, but I resist it.
I am not going to become the kind of man who demands constant updates. Aubrey is an adult. She is capable of walking through New York City without reporting her location to me every fifteen minutes.
I know every one of those things. Knowing them does not slow my pulse.
I take Liana into the nursery and lower her into the crib. She fusses the moment her back touches the mattress, so I rest one hand over her stomach until her body relaxes. The night-light casts a soft amber glow over her face.
For a moment, watching her breathe steadies me. Then the monitor screen beside the chair shows the time—6:44.
My mother was supposed to be home before dinner.
The thought appears without warning.
It is not a memory at first, just a sentence. Familiar enough that my body reacts before my mind fully understands why.
My mother was supposed to be home before dinner.
I close my eyes.
No. Aubrey is shopping. This is different.
Aubrey is somewhere in Manhattan, probably irritated by a slow cashier or debating whether Liana needs another Christmas outfit.
I remove my hand from the crib and stand too quickly. The room shifts beneath me for half a second.
I grip the edge of the dresser until it steadies.
“Stop,” I mutter.
Liana stirs at the sound, and I immediately lower my voice.
“I’m sorry.”
I leave the nursery door partially open and walk back into the main room.
It’s 6:48.
I send another text.
Me: Please call me.
The word please looks more desperate than I intended.
I call the front desk.
“Mr. Ledger,” the concierge answers. “How can I help you?”
“Has Aubrey come in?”
He pauses for a moment before he answers, “Not that I’ve seen, sir.”
My stomach contracts. “Can you check the security feed from the last hour?”
There is another pause, longer this time.
“Of course.” I listen to the quiet clicking of keys. “No, sir. I don’t see her entering.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up before he can say anything else.
The room feels too warm. I reach for my tie to loosen it even though I am not wearing one. My fingers find the collar of my sweater instead and pull uselessly at the fabric.
Now it’s 6:52.
I open the location-sharing app on my phone.
Aubrey’s last location appears near Bryant Park from hours earlier.
The small gray note beneath it reads Location Unavailable.
Another image forces itself into my head. A phone lying cracked on a sidewalk. A crowd gathered around something I cannot see.
Red and blue lights reflecting against wet pavement.
I squeeze my eyes shut so hard that pain shoots through my temples.
When I open them again, I am still standing in my living room.
The Christmas tree lights continue blinking.
Dinner is cold, and the apartment is intact.
Nothing has happened. I know nothing has happened, but my body doesn’t believe me.
At 6:55, I call Sawyer.
He answers on the second ring. “What’s up?”
“Have you heard from Aubrey?” I ask immediately.
“Uhhh, no. Why would I have heard from Aubrey?”
“She went shopping. She was supposed to be home by now.”
Why am I calling him? I doubt she even has his number. I’m acting insane.
“What time?” he asks.
“Before dinner.”
He coughs. “And dinner was?”
“Six.”
There is a brief pause.
“It’s not even seven yet.”