“Mr. Sharp, may I have your address please?”

“23 Ocean’s Bluff Drive.”

“And your driver’s license number?”

There are three more questions that Marcus passes with flying colors, us both breathing easier when the representative moves on.

“Please hold while we locate the vehicle. Would you like us to also notify local police?”

“No,” Marcus said with an easy laugh. “My nephew was due home two hours ago. Borrowed it for a date. We’re thinking he’s sleeping off a party somewhere. I’ll just breathe easier knowing where it’s at.”

“Excellent, sir. One more minute on the location.”

I give him a thumbs up and he rubs his fingers together. Digging in my pocket, I come up with and toss his cash across the counter. Pulling the paper closer, I grab a pen. Wait for the voice to tell me my soulmate’s location. Cross my fingers and pray he has stayed with his car.

“Mr.Sharp, if you have a pen, I have the location.”

“Go ahead.”

I pose over the paper.

“8912 Evergreen Trail, San Francisco, California. Please know that, if you wish, we can remotely disable the engine.”

Marcus glances at me, and I shake my head in response. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you for your help.”

“Thank you for calling Eurowatch, Mr. Brant. And thank you for being a member of the Aston Martin family.”

Marcus reaches out and ends the call. “That help?”

“Yes, thank you.” I key the address into my phone, grabbing the papers, my mind mentally walking through the next steps. I should call Jillian. Get her involved, or at least in the loop before I head to wherever Brant is.

I come to a sudden stop before the door, his body hitting me from behind. “What?” he says, stepping back. “Everything okay?”

I stared at my phone, at the first search engine result: the property appraiser site for San Francisco County. 8912 Evergreen Trail is a home. A large one, purchased for $6.5 million seven years ago by one Jillian Sharp.

I lock my phone and yank at the front door, fury propelling me forward.

“What’s wrong?” Marcus calls after me, my backward glance catching him in the door, his hands braced on either side of the frame.

I take a step back, rip a page from the folder and scribble down the few items that the Aston Martin representative had asked for. Thrust the paper at him. “Call them back. Invent a new story, but find out how long his car has been there. Then text me it.”

“For free?” The incredulity in his voice has my eyes snapping back, his hands raising up when he sees the fire in my glare. “Okay. Just joking. I’ll call them.”

“Now!” I call out, turning and jogging down the hill of his driveway, my car chirping as I plow toward it.

My suspicions are confirmed when the text from Marcus comes through.

SINCE FRIDAY NIGHT.

Bitch. That woman had stood on her front porch and lied to me, his car no doubt tucked away in one of her garages. Let me stand there guilt-stricken and led me to believe that Brant was wandering around lost. Unsure of who he was, in the middle of a psychological break because of my actions. Had stood there with her judgmental Iwasright glare. When he had been inside her house the whole time. Had he stood by the window and watched me? Is he mad at me? Is she using this time to turn him against me? I need to know what is being said, where his mind is. If he is in a strong place or a weak one.

5:24 AM. I take the exit for her home and kick myself for not instantly recognizing the address the moment it had been announced by the helpful customer service representative with the mandatory British accent. Brant and I have driven by her home so often that I know it by sight, not address. Still. I bite my lip and try to organize my thoughts. Soon, I will see Brant. He is safe, not lost. His mind is intact if he is at Jillian’s. I need to talk to him. Without him, I am lost.

Chapter 60

Jillian lives in Nobb Hill, the snooty area of San Francisco, if I have any right whatsoever to call anything snooty. I pull into her drive and park, shutting off the engine and staring at the house. There is a late model BMW parked on the pavers beside me. I look at it with new interest, trying to remember if it had been there yesterday. Coming up blank, I step toward the front door. Pause and consider the fact that it is five thirty in the morning.

Extremely rude to knock at this hour. My manners stop my reach toward the door. I step back. Think. Step forward and try the knob. Locked. Big surprise. I wince, then reach up and pound the shit out of the door.

My trepidation disappears the moment Jillian answers the door, fully dressed, makeup on. Her puzzled look turns to an impressive show of alarm upon seeing me. “What’s wrong? Is it Brant? Did you find him?”

I stare at her, slack jawed, my mind furiously working, something it should have done during the drive here. She’s continuing the façade. I had expected, upon my early morning arrival at Casa Jillian, for her to be contrite and honest.

“No…” I say slowly. “I haven’t. May I come in?”

Her mouth closes and a regretful look passes over her face. “It’s awfully early, Lana. The staff isn’t even up yet.”

I can call bullshit on that. Jillian demands secretaries at BSX arrive by 6:30 AM. I’m pretty sure her house staff starts their day before the sun rises. I also notice her use of ‘Lana’—an endearment never extended before. If she thinks I’m that pliable, I’m going to dissuade her right now. I step forward, pressing a firm hand on the door and squeeze by her, a huff of annoyance heralding my entrance. “I just need a minute, Jillian. I’m going crazy with worry.” I allow my voice to wobble, hoping that it passes as hysterical.