“You remember that?” he asks.

  His voice starts low, but lifts at the end, like he realized the tone and caught the sagging words to toss them back up into a question steeped in excitement.

  “I do, thanks to you. I was so confused by what I was seeing when I was filling out the cards last week, but you reminded me of Vivian, and it became so clear. She’s so beautiful. I hope we’ll be able to travel out to see her next year for Christmas.”

  “Oh?” Charles asks.

  I nod and move around the kitchen taking out bowls and pots to start the fudge so it can be ready tomorrow morning.

  “With Dr. Baker’s help, and you, Dear, I know I can overcome these challenges. We can really start living our lives. Our life. Together. And that would be the most amazing trip. She lives all the way across the country – we could go to Disneyland. By then it will be even more magnificent. So much can happen in a year and a half of being open.”

  Charles takes me into his arms and touches a soft kiss to my lips. I taste tears in them, and I wonder if I might have taken a step too far.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nick

  Matilda hadn’t heard anything, but she didn’t have the reaction Nick thought she would. Rather than her panic getting stronger and her agreeing to come join him in searching for her daughter, she had gotten more suspicious. There was a note in her voice every time they spoke that said she was just waiting for Nick to admit he had done something to her. But he couldn’t stop reaching out to her. It didn’t matter what she thought. He knew the truth, and it was going to take everyone possible to search for her.

  The police wouldn’t listen when he called them again and said he thought he knew who took his wife, not even when he said it was possible she was already dead. Not even when he said he had followed Alex to the edge of the woods and seen him disappear down a narrow road that led to nowhere and was far from his home.

  It was like they didn’t even hear him. Just a man whose wife left him. A man who needed to recognize what he had done to drive her away and either accept that she was gone or find a way to get her back. Nick would never accept that she was gone. Even if it took until his last breath, he would find her. No matter what Alex did to her, he would bring her home.

  Then he would deal with Alex.

  The doorbell ringing was startling in the quiet house. Nick wasn’t expecting anyone to come by, but he especially wasn’t expecting the face he saw through the glass beside the door. He walked past the foyer table in bare feet. There was no more glass to dig into his skin, and the cold had been chased away by the fire he kept burning in the fireplace every moment he was home. Watching the flames dance comforted him.

  Alex leaned to the side to look through the glass and grinned at him, waving cheerfully. Nick wrenched open the door and glared out at him.

  “Hello, Mr. Whitman,” he said.

  “Merry Christmas, Helmsworth. Please, call me Alex. I think we’ve been working together long enough for that. Especially if you are going after that promotion. I have it in good authority you are in the running.”

  He laughed, and Nick managed a lukewarm smile.

  “Alex.”

  “That’s better. And I guess that means I’ll call you Nick. Sounds appropriate. ‘Tis the season, after all.”

  That was really enough of that. Nick had gotten his fill of the cheery holiday small talk, especially with him. His hands ached to wrap around Alex’s neck and throttle him, but he couldn’t. Not until he found Liza and knew everything this man had done to her.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Nick asked.

  Alex produced a Christmas-themed tin wrapped in a red satin bow.

  “I brought you something.”

  Nick was torn between his hatred of Alex and his manners. Desire to pull any information about Liza out of him overrode both of them. He stepped to the side and gestured with one arm to the entryway.

  “Would you like to come in?” he asked.

  There was no sincerity in his voice, but Alex seemed to create all of it he needed and smiled enthusiastically.

  “Absolutely.”

  “This way.”

  They walked into the house, and Nick led him into the living room. Alex looked around and then turned his smile to Nick.

  “You know, I believe this is the first time I’ve been to your home.”

  “I think so.”

  He pointed to a wedding picture hanging on the wall. Nick had taken it down in the first days after Liza left, but it returned to its spot a few days ago. Stinging grey eyes fell on Liza just like they did when Alex sat at the end of the dock and stared at his phone.

  “And this is your wife?”

  Nick rolled his neck, trying to keep himself calm.

  “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Alex turned to him with an apologetic look on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think before I spoke.”

  Nick shook his head.

  “It’s true,” he said. “That is my wife. Liza is still my wife; she just isn’t here.”

  Their eyes met. Alex searched his face for a few moments before the smile slid back into place. He held the tin out to Nick.

  “This is compliments of Mrs. Whitman,” he said. “She sends her regrets that you weren’t able to attend the party and wants you to know you are appreciated. By both of us. It’s her sister’s recipe.”

  The tin felt heavy as Alex handed it over, but it didn’t seem to have to do with what was in it. The words hung around them.

  “Thank you,” Nick said.

  Alex nodded and let out an awkward sigh. He glanced around like he was waiting for something else, then started toward the door.

  “Well, I’ll be going. Have a wonderful holiday. I look forward to seeing you in January.”

  It sounded like the outgoing message on a corporate voicemail account. Nick followed him to the door.

  “You, too,” he said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  He shut the door behind Alex before he could give in to his compulsion to follow him. Not right now. It would be too obvious. He took a step back from the door and was headed back toward the living room when he realized he was still holding the tin. The red ribbon held a card on top, and Nick slid it out of place. He opened it and saw an obviously photoshopped picture of Alex and a dark-haired woman posing in front of a fireplace.

  Happy holidays to you and yours. The Whitmans

  Tossing the card onto the entryway table, Nick set down the tin and used his fingers to pry the lid out of place. He didn’t even need to see what was beneath the pieces of delicate tissue paper for his heart to start pounding in his chest; the smell was enough. But he moved the paper aside anyway. As soon as he saw the fudge, the lid dropped from his hand, and he ran to the living room where he dug through the only box of Christmas items he hadn’t fully obliterated. A moment later, he stuffed his feet into shoes without bothering to put socks on, grabbed his coat, and flew out the door.

  Mrs. Whitman’s sister’s recipe, my ass.

  He grabbed his phone as his car skidded around the corner out of his neighborhood.

  “I need to speak to Detective Jefferson about a missing persons report,” he said when a man obviously exasperated to be working answered the phone. “I have new information about the disappearance of my wife. I believe I know where she is and that she is in serious danger.” He turned onto the next road and saw Alex’s car ahead of him, he honked the horn and gestured for Alex to pull into the next parking lot. “Her name is Mary Elizabeth Helmsworth. Liza.”

  Mary/Liza

  As soon as Charles walks back inside, I’m focused on the shimmering silver envelope in his hand. Even from this distance I know it is smooth and heavy, cardstock sprinkled with tiny embossed snowflakes.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  Charles looks at the envelope as if he’s forgotten he was holding it.

  “Oh, this is from one of my employees,” he says. “He was very appreciative of the fudge.”

  “Oh?”

  He forces a hint of a laugh.

  “He was so touched, he even forgot to give me the card when I was at his house. He chased me down after I left.”

  I laugh and reach for it.

  “That’s very sweet. May I see it?”

  Charles hands it to me, and I feel a ripple of current rush through me as soon as my fingertips touch the paper. I don’t show what I’m feeling as my fingers slip beneath the flap on the envelope, releasing the adhesive. My skin searches for the lingering remnants of him, of the tongue that touched the seal, the laugh that sounds like rain, and the kiss that feels like sun on my face. Pulling the card carefully from the envelope, I open it and look at handwriting that brings tears to my eyes.

  “What does it say, Darling?” Charles asks.

  “May your holiday season be as warm as a fire in a home with no heat and as sweet as carrot cake.”

  I can barely control the tremble in my voice, and my eyes struggle to hold back tears.

  “That’s a strange inscription,” he frowns. “But I suppose he is a particular type of fellow.”

  “Who is?” I make myself ask. “There’s no signature.”

  To prove my point, I turn the card around and show Charles the blank space beneath the message. He looks at me, and I stare plainly into his eyes, not flinching. It isn’t hard to look into his eyes and lie. I’ve been doing it without knowing for six months. No one would ever have to tell me this card is from Nick. Christmas will always bring to mind the memory of the first one we spent together when we were dating. We wanted to make it special, and he invited me to stay at his parents’ house while they were away visiting family. It took only two hours of a storm to knock the power out and one shared piece of carrot cake huddled in front of the fireplace that night to prove he is the love of my life.

  Charles looks satisfied by the question and smiles.

  “A cameraman named Nick.”

  “Just a cameraman?”

  “He has designs on being more, but he hasn’t proven himself.”

  The words to defend Nick, my husband, bubble up inside my throat, but I force them down. Charles takes the card from my hand and brings it into the living room to display on the mantle. I notice him glancing around at his feet and around the furniture as he comes back into the kitchen.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “Have you seen my key?”

  My stomach drops, the joy of feeling Nick so close to me, even if only through paper, drains out through my feet.

  “Your key?”

  I try to sound as casual as possible as I fall into my routine, putting out lunch, and making plans for supper.

  “The key to my study. I can’t find it.”

  “It’s not in your jacket pocket?”

  “If it was, I wouldn’t be looking for it, Darling.”

  “I’m sorry. That is the only place I’ve ever known it to be.”

  My simpering makes him feel bad, and Charles comes to touch a kiss to the top of my head.

  “It’s alright, Darling. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  “Have you seen it since you went to the property you bought?” I ask. “Could you have dropped it there?”

  “I thought I had it after that.” He felt his pockets again. “It wasn’t in the laundry?”

  I giggle for good measure.

  “Your suits don’t go into the washing machine, Dear.”

  Charles nods.

  “That was silly of me. Maybe you’re right. I know I have been away so much lately, but would you mind terribly if I went and looked for it? It’s the only key I have, and I wouldn’t want to have to call a locksmith this close to Christmas.”

  “Of course, I don’t mind. You know what’s best. I wouldn’t want to bother a locksmith now, either,” I tell him. “Sit down and have lunch, and then you can go.”

  Charles shakes his head.

  “No. Please pack it up for me. I’ll take it to eat in the car.”

  I don’t argue. Less than five minutes, later he has a sack of sandwiches and potato chips in his hand and is heading out of the house with a cursory kiss to my cheek. Waiting is almost impossible. It’s always hard to be patient when Charles leaves, but today I feel myself twitching, shaking with anticipation. Finally, I can’t wait any longer. I run down the hallway to the study and go straight for the desk, gathering out all the folders in the locked drawer. Then I rush to the guest room to reclaim what’s really mine.

  I shouldn’t pause. I shouldn’t take a single second longer. But I can’t resist the suitcase full of my clothes. Low pumps get kicked across the room. Dress, crinolines, and petticoats fall to the ground. Lingerie drops to the discarded pile of fabric. In their place, my own bra and panties. My own jeans. My own t-shirt. My own sweatshirt. I’m trying to stuff everything into my bag when I hear the sound I so desperately didn’t want to hear.

  The front door slamming.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Nick

  The soundstage loomed ahead of him as Nick pounded down the paved path toward it. Alex was nowhere in sight, but he knew this was the place. The massive nondescript cement building sat in a clearing. It looked fairly small from that angle, taking up the equivalent of a few city blocks, but it stretched endlessly into the distance, covering acres. On the sides he could see, the soundstage was surrounded by a variety of large trees whose branches reached out like fingers, grasping at the sun.

  His breath was shallow and forced as he forced his legs to churn toward the door in the distance. He slowed as he reached it, skidding to a halt by ramming his body into the metal door. Trying to turn the knob did nothing. He yanked on it, hoping for any movement at all.

  A roar of panic and rage came from deep within his chest, and his hands slipped off the knob. In frustration, he kicked the door, hoping against hope that he could dent it, move it, just slightly. Enough to get his fingers in. He had to find a way in. The door didn't budge, and it didn't dent. It stood as it was, the only evidence of his kick a slight smudge from the rubber of his shoe. There had to be another way in. Something. Anything.

  His head whipped around as he surveyed the area around him, hoping for a crowbar or a pipe or even a large branch. Something he could swing at the door, or any other opening. Nothing. The area around the building was empty but for flowers. It looked manicured. Fake.

  Something glinted in the flowerbed. He ran to it, hoping what he was seeing was real. It was almost around on the other side of the building, but the setting sun shone on it like a beacon of hope. He darted for it, mind racing as to how to use it. As his hands clasped around the wooden handle, the plan formed in his mind. It wouldn't work. He knew it wouldn't. But he had to try. Running back to the door with the shovel in hand, he aimed it at the small empty space between the door and the frame.

  Nick jammed the shovel point end first, into the crack. It stuck, and he shoved it down, smashing into the silver lock. It didn't give. He tried again, pushing all his weight into it, and again, it just clanged against the lock and refused to budge. He tried to wedge it, inching it down, but nothing moved. Beads of sweat collected on his eyebrows, and he had to wipe them away with his arm as he gripped the shovel tighter. Putting a foot on the doorframe he leaned back, pulling the shovel toward him until a snapping sound preceded him falling backwards onto the ground.

  He tossed the now useless chunk of the shovel handle to the side and scrambled to his feet. The door wasn't going to open. He had to find another way in. Searching upward for a window or a ledge to climb, he saw a gap in the cement high in the air. He stepped back to get a better look and saw it was a vent, allowing air to escape the building, but not offering much in the way of an entrance.

  "Come on," he muttered to himself.

  Nick had to get inside the building. It was a massive, sprawling building, but he knew Liza was in there somewhere. Stepping away from the front door, he wandered around the building, noting the curious lack of a fire exit in the back, or anything other than the large ventilation shafts that stuck out at seemingly random places along the building, far too high to climb up to.

  One of the shafts stuck out of the left side of the building, touching the branches of an outcrop of trees that had stretched their wandering fingers all the way over the trampled down walkway and reached the building itself. A few of them were just above the shaft, maybe two or three feet. Enough that if he could just get on that branch, he might have a chance.

  He scolded himself as he tried to climb the tree. This was ridiculous. There was no way he could make it, but at the same time, he had to try. Climbing the tree was more difficult than he remembered from his childhood, back when swinging from branch to branch had been a game, when the risk of horrible injuries or death was just another aspect of the fun. Now his mind raced with what-if scenarios of him being stuck here, crumpled in a heap by the building, his neck snapped in two. They would never know why. Alex would make sure of that.

  They would never find Liza.

  He found purchase for his footing on a limb that had looked so solid from far away, and now looked so thin and brittle. One experimental step seemed to send the entire tree bending forward. There was no turning back now, though, and finding a branch to hold on to above him, Nick began to sidle his way across. He tried not to look down, to keep his mind focused on why he was doing this. He had to get to her, and if he could just get inside the building…

  He was feet away from the building when his heart sank. Closer to the vents now, he could see that they weren't as large as they looked from the ground either. And they were grated, with steel bars closing the entrance to them, and soldered into place. Even if he could reach it, he wouldn't be able to get in.