It happens on a Sunday.
Of course it does.
Sundays are supposed to be slow. Safe. Predictable.
We’ve made a ritual of it—late breakfast, light work, long walk, early dinner.
Zara wakes up in a mood.
Not angry.
Not withdrawn.
Just… distant.
“You good?” I ask over pancakes.
“Fine.”
Fine again.
That word has layers now.
Marcus catches my eye.
Don’t push.
I nod.
We let it be.
The day goes smoothly on the surface.
Zara spends most of it in the studio.
Music too loud.
Brush strokes harder than usual.
Marcus and I review grant applications in the living room.
Around six, I call down.
“Dinner!”
No answer.
I head downstairs.
The studio door is open.
The room is empty.
Her backpack is gone.
My pulse spikes.
“Marcus.”
He’s beside me in seconds.
“She’s not here.”
“She d
