Chapter Seven—Chris
FOUR DAYS AFTER LORNA leaves, I’ve run out of places to look without doing exactly what she asked me not to do.
Her old number still works, but she doesn’t answer it.
Location sharing is off. She hasn’t used any joint account in a way that gives me an address, and the credit cards attached to our household haven’t been touched since Charleston.
I could hire someone. The thought has crossed my mind more than once.
I could have a private investigator find her before lunch. I could pull property records, trace the rental car Willa gave her, lean on people who owe me favors, or ask the attorneys which assets Lorna owned before we married.
Every option feels too much like pursuit when she made it clear she wanted distance, so I don’t.
That doesn’t mean I’m good at waiting. The penthouse has become unbearable by the second day. I start running in the mornings because an hour outside is preferable to sitting at the kitchen island looking at the stool where Lorna usually works.
Nothing new has arrived for her here. That’s one of the few facts I actually have.
Gerald has logged two packages since she left, both expected shipments from companies Lorna has worked with before. There have been no flowers, perfume, or envelopes without a return address.
The old phone line has received nothing from an unknown number that I can see.
Her public accounts remain dark.
I don’t know what’s happening wherever Lorna is. If someone has found her, I wouldn’t necessarily hear about it. If she’s getting messages on a new number, I can’t see them. If something is being delivered to wherever she went, Gerald isn’t there to log it.
Still, the quiet in Charleston is hard not to notice.
Fenton notices it too. “The building hasn’t reported anything unusual since she left,” he says when he calls Wednesday afternoon.
I’m in my office at Aldren Capital, staring at a financing memo I’ve read three times without retaining much of it. “I know.”
“Gerald sent over the delivery log.”
“I already saw it.”
Fenton pauses. “There’s been nothing through the public accounts either.”
“Her accounts haven’t been active.”
He instantly agrees. “Right.”
I lean back in my chair. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, but I know. “You’re thinking the timing matters.”
“I think everything matters until we know more.” The response is careful and reasonable, just as he always sounds.
I look toward the windows. Charleston Harbor is visible beyond the neighboring buildings, sunlight breaking across the water. “She could be getting things wherever she is.”
“She could.” He agrees but doesn’t sound like he believes it.
“So we don’t know that it stopped.”
“No.”
I appreciate that he doesn’t push.
Then he adds, “We do know nothing else has happened through the channels we can see.”
I rub my forehead. “Yes.”
“That’s worth noting.”
Maybe it is. The uncomfortable part is that I want it to mean more than it does.
If nothing follows Lorna away from the penthouse, maybe the environment mattered. Maybe the deliveries and messages depended on her routines here. Maybe stepping away from everything connected to Charleston has interrupted whatever pattern frightened her.
That still leaves the attack. I can’t make that fit as easily.
I still have no proof it even happened. The police haven’t sent the full access records yet, and every time I think about the hallway, I hear Lorna telling me someone put an arm around her neck.
Then I remember the officer questioning the bruising, her head injury, and the months before it.
I keep circling the same information and arriving at the same place.
Not enough facts. What I do have supports the danger was all in her mind.
Fenton asks, “Do you want me to push the building again?”
“Yes.”
“I will.”
“And the alarm company.”
He taps his keyboard. “They said tomorrow.”
“Make it today.”
“All right.” I end the call and return to the memo.
For the next twenty minutes, I manage to work before I open Lorna’s contact. There are no new messages, so I close it again, pretending I won’t be checking again within an hour.
Thursday evening, I attend a dinner I would rather cancel, and she’s not on my arm.
Richard Moray is a limited partner in two of our funds, and his daughter is celebrating her engagement at a restaurant his family has used for years.
The invitation has been on my calendar for a month. Lorna was supposed to come with me.
I almost cancel, but Fenton points out I’ve already moved enough meetings this week to start generating questions.
I hate that he’s right.
The dinner is twelve people in a private room upstairs. Richard’s wife spends the first course telling me about a renovation in Kiawah while I make the correct responses at roughly the correct intervals.
The empty chair beside me keeps catching my attention. Lorna would have liked the room, with old plaster walls, low lighting, and flowers that look gathered instead of arranged. She would have asked who did the table linens before dessert and probably found the vendor before we got home.
I know that much about her. The realization doesn’t make me feel better because it underscores how much I either forgot or never learned.
A woman named Dara sits on my other side. She’s mid-thirties, in corporate communications for a technology company, married, and blessedly uninterested in pitching me anything.
We talk about downtown development for a while. Then she glances at my left hand. “Your wife couldn’t make it?”
“She’s away.”
“Work?”
“No.” The answer comes out sharper than I intend.
Dara gives me a brief look, then returns to her wine. “Sorry. None of my business.”
“It’s fine.”
She doesn’t ask again.
Across the table, Richard’s daughter Camille is showing someone photographs on her phone. She’s twenty-six, polished without seeming rehearsed, and visibly happy.
Dessert is being served when she comes around the table thanking people for attending. She stops beside me. “Mr. Aldren, I’m glad you came.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She starts to move on, then hesitates. “Can I ask you something strange?”
“Sure.”
“Are you married to Lorna Raney?”
The name catches my attention immediately. Not Aldren. Raney. It makes me uncomfortable, but I try to hide that. “Yes.”
Camille’s composed hostess facade disappears, replaced by someone several years younger. “I knew it. I didn’t want to assume, but I’ve followed her forever.”
I stare at her. “You follow Lorna?”
“Since before she stopped modeling. I found her again when she started the newsletter.” Camille laughs. “Actually, she cost me a fortune last year.”
I don’t understand. “How?”
“The ceramics.”
My expression must show it.
“She did this whole feature on small American studios. I went down a rabbit hole.” Camille gestures toward the table. “Most of the serving pieces in my apartment are from makers she recommended.”
I blink in surprise. “Her newsletter did that?”
“Yes, along with her videos.” She grins. “My fiancé says your wife is dangerous to our bank account.”
I almost tell her Lorna would enjoy that. Then I realize I’m not sure when I’ll get to tell Lorna anything.
Camille must notice the pause because her smile softens. “Is she okay?”
“Why?”
“She disappeared.”
The word makes me flinch, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
Camille gestures vaguely toward her phone. “Online. She hasn’t posted anything for days. No newsletter either. Everyone started asking about her.”
I frown in confusion. “Everyone?”
She looks surprised at my tone. “Her followers.”
I know Lorna has followers. She posts regularly and the business makes money. I’ve signed tax documents with income from Raney Media listed on them.
I have never looked closely at the numbers. Our accountant handles that. “How many people follow her?”
Camille stares at me, but not rudely. The surprise that I don’t know is worse.
“Across everything? A little over two million, I think.”
I don’t say anything.
“Maybe more now,” she says after a second. “I mostly follow Instagram and the newsletter, but she’s on TikTok and YouTube too, for sure.”
“Two million.” I say the number softly.
“Yes.” She’s still clearly puzzled that I don’t know this about my wife.
I’m ashamed, not puzzled. I try to remember Lorna telling me that number but don’t remember any conversation about it.
Camille shifts slightly. “Her audience is really engaged too. That’s why people noticed so fast. There are whole threads asking whether something happened.”
Something happened.
The bruises around Lorna’s wrists appear in my head, along with the mark near her temple. I didn’t see them, but she described them.
The way her voice sounded when she told me she had checked whether she’d been raped suddenly haunts me. I set down my water glass.
Camille notices. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Is she all right?” she asks again, more quietly.
“She’s safe.” As far as I know. I don’t say that part. I manage a tepid smile. “She’s taking some time away.”
Relief crosses Camille’s face. “What a relief. People got worried because she’s usually consistent. Even when she takes a break, she tells everyone.”
“I didn’t know that.” The words are out before I can stop them.
Camille looks at me again, slightly askance.
I redirect the subject. “You said you read her newsletter?”
She grins. “Every week.”
“What does she write about?”
Now Camille looks genuinely confused. She must think I’m the worst husband alive. She could be right.
“Travel, food, interiors, and wellness. Small businesses and those challenges occasionally. Sometimes, longer personal pieces.” She smiles. “She’s good. She doesn’t make everything sound like an advertisement.”
I nod as though this information isn’t entirely new to me. “She loves it.” I can say that confidently at least.
Someone calls Camille from the other end of the table before she can reply. She excuses herself after making me promise to say hello to Lorna for her.
I sit there staring at the untouched dessert in front of me, wondering when I’ll see her again to tell her anything.