Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
BECK
“Javier says the harvest is all but done,” Pop mutters over his lunch.
I have half a sandwich in one hand and Instagram open on my phone in the other. I don’t look up. “Uh huh.”
Other than posting about when Olivier Family Farms will be at a farmer’s market, I have nearly zero social media presence. Griffin has made it clear that’ll have to change if I officially try to make a go of the distillery, but that’s a problem for future me.
I broke down and texted Margaret this morning, but the phone only shows that my message has been delivered, not read.
Hattie told me she and Merrick were honeymooning in Hawaii. It’s only 7:20 a.m. in Hawaii. I know. I looked it up.
I should be patient, but I haven’t heard from Hattie since her 1 a.m. text Monday. It’s Friday. Hattie’s not home. No one is.
It feels like all of my vital organs have been ejected from my body and replaced with fire ants.
I can’t reach any of the Merciers, so now I’m trying to find Merrick on social media.
I’ve run down the list of reasonable explanations for Hattie’s silence. Honestly, the best case scenario is that she’s ghosting me because she wants to break up.
But that just doesn’t feel true.
Not at all.
Not given the time we’ve shared. Not given what we’ve become to each other.
Not after last weekend.
She loves me. And she knows I love her.
I can’t believe anything else.
Which can only mean something is very wrong.
What I don’t know is: Do Margaret and Merrick know that something is very wrong?
“You makin’ deliveries today?”
I scroll through every Instagram search hit.
BAM!
There he is. Merrick Milton.
His account is public, and his profile pic is on the steps of the cathedral with Margaret in his arms. I drop my sandwich and topple the kitchen chair when I leap to my feet.
“YES!”
“Good God, son. What’s gotten into you?” Pop is clutching the edge of the table like I might send it flying. He glares at me over the rims of his glasses. “You’ve been acting like a kicked wasp nest all week. What the hell is wrong?”
I pick up the chair and force myself to sit back down. Sitting is one thing. Keeping still is entirely another.
My thumbs fly over the screen.
Me: Merrick, this is Hattie’s boyfriend, Beck. We met at the wedding. I’m sorry to reach out like this while you and Margaret are on your honeymoon—
Pop’s big hand closes around my bicep like a vise. “Goddamn it, Beckett. Tell me what’s wrong.” He doesn’t let go, so I have to meet his glare. “Is it the crop? Is it Paul? What’s got you so rattled?”
My jaw clenches. For a split second, I hesitate to spill.
“Fuck the crop. Fuck Paul. Fuck everything else.”
Pop’s eyebrows climb halfway to his hairline. Then he releases me and leans back in his chair, frowning. “It’s Hattie then.”
Shit. He gets it.
The relief that hits me is almost cruel. The sudden knot in my throat is like a fist.
“I don’t know where she is.” The words might as well be gravel in my throat.
Pop’s frown deepens. “What do you mean, son?”
I tell him about her last message. The radio silence. The read receipts. The empty house.
“Why would she text me so late like that? And then nothing?”
My father clears his throat, flattens his shaking hands on the table, and leans closer. “Is it possible she’s trying to end it, and this is the only way she knows how?”
The fact that Pop is trying to be gentle—when I only ever saw him be truly gentle with Mom—sets my eyes stinging.
I squeeze them shut and will myself to breathe.
“It’s possible. Of course, it’s possible.” Then I shake my head and look back at him. “But it’s not like her. She doesn’t hold back when she has something to say. She doesn’t because she can’t.”
I swallow hard. “It’s one of the things I love about her.” The confession is so bald and raw, I want to curl into a fetal position under the table.
This time, when Pop’s hand lands on my shoulder, the squeeze is different. Unrushed. Loving.
Christ.
I grit my teeth and will the wave of emotion to ebb.
“I think something’s wrong,” I admit finally.
Pop releases my shoulder but studies me. “Like what?”
I press my lips together. Is this going to sound crazy? Am I crazy to even be thinking this? My pulse beats harder.
“Her parents are—her mom, especially—really protective.”
Pop stares at me for a moment. “Well…” He tips his head to the side, a silent acknowledgement. “Understandable, isn’t it?”
Other than warning me to be careful with her the day he met Hattie, Pop has said nothing else about Hattie’s neurodivergence. He just adored her on site. Welcomed her immediately.
Who wouldn’t?
But I shake my head at his question. “No, she’s…” How do I explain? “Yes, some things are harder for her than for you or me, but she’s not helpless. She’s far from it.”
Pop’s mouth scrunches up. “I have a smoke alarm that might say otherwise,” he says in that gruff gentle way I’m beginning to hate.
I drag a hand down my face, gathering patience. “That could’ve happened to anybody, Pop.”
He doesn’t speak a word. It’s only his face that says, But it didn’t.
And I’m fucked because talking to him only makes me feel worse. Because his take just makes my fears loom larger.
“I’m worried about her.” And admitting this out loud is like opening Pandora’s box. Panic just spreads its wings and beats higher and higher.
“Like what? If you said no one’s at her house, then don’t you think she’s with her family?” he asks, sounding calm and reasonable. “Safe and sound?”
I remember the look on Hattie’s mom’s face when I opened the door Sunday morning. Shock. Smothered outrage.
I have seen her face—that look—every day since I read that string of texts Monday morning.
She didn’t like seeing us together like that. That much was obvious. And maybe it wasn’t even personal. She may have felt that way if anyone opened the door to Hattie’s room.
“What if—” I rake my hands through my hair and grip at the roots. “I know—I know this is going to sound crazy. But what if they took her away?”
Pop blinks into a baffled expression. “Took her where?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Just—away.” I do sound crazy.
I’m sure of it when Pop snorts. “You think they’ve ferreted her away to a convent or something?”
“No.” I scowl at him. “Not a convent.”
But maybe or something.
I don’t voice this thought, but I take a stab at where she could be. Not for the first time.
A second home? Do they have one?
Another country?
No matter what, she wasn’t planning on going anywhere. Not when we kissed goodbye Sunday morning.
And that’s what has me so worried.
If she wasn’t planning on going away, then I have to wonder.
Did she have a choice?
The question is enough to drive me barking mad.
Because if she didn’t—
“I need to get in touch with her sister.” I shove away from the table and stalk out of the kitchen. I crash through the screen door and pace the porch while I finish the message to Merrick.
Me: Merrick, this is Hattie’s boyfriend, Beck. We met at the wedding. I’m sorry to reach out like this while you and Margaret are on your honeymoon—
But I’m wondering if either of you know where Hattie is. I’m worried. We were supposed to meet on Monday, but she canceled with an odd, middle-of-the-night text. She’s not answering texts or calls, and no one is home.
I stare at the message and try to read it from Merrick’s perspective. A message from his sister-in-law’s boyfriend whom he’s met once.
A guy his mother saw kissing said sister-in-law within an inch of her life at a public park on their first date.
Do I sound like an unhinged stalker?
Yes. Yes, I do.
I delete the message and start over.
Hi Merrick. This is Beck Olivier, Hattie’s boyfriend. Could you or Margaret give me a call? It’s about Hattie. 337-555-8712.
Short. Not an info-dump.
Less crazy-sounding.
I press send.
Then I look back at the message I sent to Margaret four hours ago—3:30 a.m. for her.
Crap.
Me: I can’t find Hattie. Do you know where she is? Is she okay?
I cringe.
Yeah, that one sounds crazy.
I’m wishing I could delete it on her end when the message goes from delivered to read right before my eyes.
I hold my breath, watching as dots appear and disappear. Appear and disappear.
Please, Margaret. Please respond.
When the phone rings in my hand, I almost drop it.
“H-hel—”
“Beck? What do you mean you can’t find her?” Margaret’s voice croaks with a mix of sleep and panic.
I fist my hair as her panic becomes my panic. If Margaret doesn’t know where she is—
“Margaret. Where is she? Have you heard from her since you left?”
“I—no? She’s not at home?” I hear Merrick’s voice in the background. “Beck—I’m putting you on speaker.”
Margaret’s voice is shaking now, and it scares me so bad I sink to my boots on the front porch.
Hattie, honey, where are you?
I’ve been scared before. I’ve felt dread before.
When Mom got sick again.
When Pop got diagnosed.
When Uncle Paul gave me ninety days.
But I’ve never known brain-bleaching fear like this.
Me not knowing where Hattie is is one thing. Margaret not knowing is a fucking nightmare.
“I-I’ve been trying to reach her for five days.” Hell, why did I wait until now to contact Margaret? “No one’s answering at your house. I’ve gone over there the last two days. I—”
“Beck. It’s Merrick,” Hattie’s brother-in-law comes over the line. “Slow down. Are you saying no one’s answering at the Mercier’s?”
“Jesus Christ—Jesus Christ—” Margaret sounds strangled. “Baby, call my dad, please.”
Even with blood roaring through my ears, I hear sounds of scrambling. The chaotic sounds of two people leaping out of bed in a rush.
I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on breathing.
I try to whip my brain into shape, make it rule out the worst-case scenarios.
If someone would have broken into Hattie’s house and held her and her parents at gunpoint—or kidnapped them or left them for dead—