I called her seventeen times.
Seventeen times, standing in the library with his book still in my hand, each call went straight to voicemail, and her recorded cheerful and jocose voice completely unbearable "you've reached Claire, leave a message" and on the eighteenth attempt I threw the phone onto the chair and pressed both hands flat against the cold window glass and breathed.
Think.
She'd seen the photographs, taken a car, disappeared into a dark coastal road at eleven at night, an hour ago, with no destination in mind, no call — nothing. Just gone in the specific way of a woman whose world had just collapsed under her feet without warning. I knew that feeling.
I'd had months to prepare for it, but she'd had none. Was she back at our old house?
Elspeth was in the kitchen, standing
